


Paint me to life

by prussium



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, F/M, M/M, Magic Realism, Mental Health Issues, Mild Sexual Content, Minor Character Death, Panic Attacks, Past Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, Romance, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-09
Updated: 2017-10-13
Packaged: 2017-12-22 21:35:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 59,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/918277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prussium/pseuds/prussium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur Kirkland aches to be someone else other than the self-destructive artist that he is. Granted one morning, he awakes next to the product of his own imagination, his muse in flesh and blood, swinging him into a ride full of rousing twists and turns.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wanted: Muse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This story will later contain self-harm and other related themes brought about by mental disorder(s). If you are disturbed or triggered by such, I recommend not proceeding.

Late afternoon in early autumn, Arthur Kirkland wandered around the city park and waited for his muse to fall from a tree. He chuckled at the silly thought, wallowing in the desperation as the main problem ensued: he needed a muse.

Would he ever find one? What is an artist without his muse?

Once again, he scanned the uninterrupted view of foliage and sunset. Leaves continuously danced into descending swirls, kaleidoscope hues of red, yellow, and green carpeting the pavement. After a moment of enforced appreciation, the corner of his lips sank into a frown. The beauty wasn’t enough to fuel his creativity.

The absentminded perfectionist corrected his woolen scarf beneath his jet black jacket, and swung his leather boots for the stride home. His fingers combed his windswept hair, originally blond but currently dyed crimson with black highlights, as plain crimson made him a carbon copy of Allistor, a sorry excuse for an older brother. He wrinkled his nose at the thought and made a note to change his hair color when he got home.

He silently cursed all those artists who have enough inspiration in the form of their loved ones, instantly discovering their own muses, and taking them for granted most of the time.

Rain pattered against his exposed skin, distracting him from his long list of cursing as if the heavens heard his profanities and scolded him for doing so.

 _Shit,_ he thought and ran for cover.

☆

Arthur Kirkland’s little residence was nothing but an understatement compared to their magnanimous Hyde Park apartment on the other side of the Atlantic.

He kept it modest with minimum furniture, nothing fancy. It only had two bedrooms: he occupied one for personal space, and transformed the other into a studio where he worked his freelance flair. He’d double the effort cleaning each time his mum would pay a visit, which happened twice a year if she wasn’t too busy being a high profile interior designer.

After freshening up and changing his hair color (tomorrow his hair would be back to blond, boring blond), he slipped on a comfortable oversized shirt and a pair of pajamas to prepare for a light supper: cinnamon roll and a cup of rose tea. He turned the TV on and propped up on the couch, his gaze occasionally slithering to the phone.

The news was on. Were there any other options aside from the no-brainer reality shows? He clunked on the remote control until he found a replay episode of Adventure Time. A childish grin crossed his lips as Lady Rainicorn came zooming in.

He loved Lady Rainicorn.

On the coffee table sat his new book, teasing him, and he didn’t resist the temptation. He snatched the book from the table and stretched his legs across the couch, damp hair dangling on a throw pillow. Perhaps the dream world could help him escape his lonely reality, even just for a couple of hours….

☆

_"I’m so sorry!”_

_A voice inside Arthur’s head jeered:_ I told you it wasn’t a good idea to spend the morning at the park. Look at you now: caked with filth and dog spit!

_He cringed at the last two words._

_“Oh my god, I’m really sorry! Are you alright?”_

_Arthur felt a pair of arms supporting him for balance, probably the wanker who owned the disgusting beast._

_“Aside from getting pounced at, falling to the ground face down and escaping your dog’s fangs by a centimeter, I’m perfectly fine. Thank you very much,” he answered, ready to storm away, knowing he had nothing to do there anymore._

_“Listen, dude, I’m really sorry. She doesn’t usually jump at random people like that. It’s totally my fault. I should’ve known better than tying her around a tree trunk while I took a leak.”_

_A few minutes ago, Arthur was sitting on a park bench under the shade of a magnolia tree while reading his old copy of_ The Picture of Dorian Gray _, appreciating the Indian summer. But when a rocketing husky tackled him out of nowhere, he knew he should’ve gone somewhere else._

_“And sorry for the crappy apology,” the wanker said and face-palmed. “I know it doesn’t do any good.”_

_Arthur almost creased up. His drinking buddies would always ridicule the Canadians for their comical apologies but the man’s West Coast accent told Arthur that no, he was definitely not Canadian._

_From where he was standing, Arthur could only see the stranger’s silhouette backlit by the sun. All he could make out was his towering form in a jogging ensemble, skin glinting with sweat, white shirt hugging a well-sculpted torso._

_“I believe this is yours?”_

_Arthur’s face crumpled in disdain at sight of the tattered book oozing with saliva._

_“I-It belongs to the wastebasket now.” He felt his heart explode as he scooped the strength to utter the words. It was one of his favorites after all!_

_“Man, if Dorian lives today and sees his painting looking like this, he may have stabbed me to death by now,” the stranger commented, pointing at the cover with Dorian Gray’s incompletely distorted portrait, now even misshapen as it was chewed by the dog._

_“Oh, I can do him a favor,” Arthur nodded._

_“Forget that I said that.” The stranger waved a dismissive hand in the air._

_As if realizing how the two had forgotten its company, the husky barked at Arthur, who squinted in return. The stranger laughed and scratched his head, tugging the leash with more firmness to keep the dog away from its former victim._

_“Funny how looks can be deceiving, like how an attractive packaging shelters a present. You can never really know what’s inside until you tear it down,” the stranger continued, probably referring to the story, Arthur assumed. “Who knows if inside it was rotten meat after all… or worse, what if there was nothing inside all those shiny and frilly and pretty wrappers just like what Lord Henry wanted?”_

_“Well, Lord Henry was a hedonistic bastard infatuated with worldliness, thinking that nothing else matters more than outer beauty and creating self-obsessed monsters like Dorian,” Arthur replied. “The world would do better without a Lord Henry.”_

_The stranger placed a hand on top of the dog’s head, ruffling its silvery fur. “Cat lovers like you might not find Cookie attractive, with her looking like a big bad wolf and all, but believe it or not, she didn’t mean any harm. She only jumps at people she wants to play with, mostly people she’s familiar with, but for some odd reasons, she ran into you.”_

_Arthur glanced at the dog. Was it really obvious he hated hounds so much? He sighed._

_“There’s more to life than what meets the eye,” they chorused in conclusion._

_“Exactly,” Arthur gasped. He couldn’t believe his ears; he hadn’t encountered anybody who’d stop by just to talk about the story, let alone share the same opinion with him, not in that light at least._

_“You know, I really can’t let you go without a peace offering.” The stranger smiled. “What about a cup of coffee? There’s a nice bookstore with a coffee shop just two blocks away. I know I can’t just replace your book with a new one, judging how it looks like, it must have a strong sentimental value for you, but I’m guilty as charged.”_

_The stranger shrugged his shoulders, a faint light of hope glowing from his sundrenched face. As he shifted to a different angle, Arthur was able to distinguish a few more features of the curious stranger: golden hair with an odd strand sticking out of his widow’s peak, thick rimmed glasses framing electric blue eyes, and a smile as bright as the high noon sun._

_Thinking it wouldn’t hurt to accept the invitation, Arthur opened his mouth to speak._

_“I guess_ _‒_ _”_

Krrrriiiiiiiiiiiinnnnngggg! Krrrriiiiiiiiiiiinnnnngggg! Krrrriiiiiiiiiiiinnnnngggg!

The alarm clock went off.

☆

Arthur’s eyes fluttered open, eureka moment smacking him like a bullet train. 

_That’s it!_

He bolted out of the couch and dashed to his studio like nobody’s business, snatching the first sketching tools he laid his eyes upon. He began translating the image inside his head into the blank piece of paper. Quick, nifty strokes soon dominated the small white space as he recalled the details of the familiar stranger in his dream. When it was finished, he studied the rough sketch. Yes, he finally found his subject.

While the creative juice flooded his system, he fixed an easel and a medium-sized canvas to perform an experimental portrait. Warm and bright colors splashed in fluid strokes here and there: hues of yellow, orange and beige, just like the color scheme of his dream. Thrill shivered under his skin, streaming through his fingertips like never before. He felt like he could work all day long. He never felt so alive.

He didn’t notice the time until he caught a glimpse of the sun setting outside the window. Had it been hours already? Boy, he’d been working non-stop dedicating a day to his canvas; he became oblivious of everything around him.

He tiptoed through the cluttered floor,ripped the curtains in half, and beheld the sky breathing its blueberry darkness. Stepping farther backwards, he took a look of his stroke of genius.

The night had fallen and the dream world would soon claim him, filling the blank spaces of the times he missed with the stranger. He bid his studio a temporary farewell, looking forward for the next day.

☆

“The last time we saw each other, your hair was blazing red ‒”

“Crimson.”

“Okay, crimson. When did you change it?”

“Last Friday… when I realized I looked like Allistor’s stupid clone. Blimey, I get mini heart attacks each time I check my reflection in the mirror!”

Arthur stopped brushing his fingertips against the plush mint bunny’s fur, recalling the last time he sat on the same couch, which was exactly two weeks ago. His glance shifted from the stuffed animal in his arms to the doctor who sat crossed legged in front of him, gazing at him in scrutiny.

“You don’t like it, do you?” Arthur frowned.

“Of course, I do! I like it when you wear it naturally. It’s quite refreshing,” the doctor replied. “In fact, I should be the one asking you that question. Do _you_ like it?”

Arthur heaved a sigh and curled up on the couch, embracing the plush toy close to his chest, burying his face on its fur. Without a doubt, the doctor was right when he gave it to Arthur during their first session and told him it was a lot better than a stress ball.

Arthur shook his head and muttered out of earshot, “I told you before: I don’t like what I see in the mirror.”

“Will you speak a little louder please?”

For the second time, he sighed and turned his back on the doctor, wishing he uttered another answer but he let it slip anyway.

He vented out, “I don’t like what I see in the mirror. No matter what I wear, no matter what I do with my looks, tidy or messy, I never come to like myself. And as if I even know who ‘myself’ is! I keep on changing my looks – I dye my hair every now and then, I own every bloody color in my closet, I draw too much attention on myself, but nothing’s working and I’m still empty. Every day I open my eyes, praying one morning I’ll wake up with a smile on my face because I’m happy and contented with myself once and for all. But of course it’s all wishful thinking! I’m not good enough for anybody. Not good enough and never will be, and I hate feeling like this but you keep telling me not to, because it’s not my fault and I’m trying not to hate myself just like what you told me to, and because I want to get rid of this feeling, but I can’t because I’ll never be good enough!”

Dr. Kiku Honda didn’t reply at once, letting the words hang in the air. Ever so calmly, he waited to see if the Brit would break the silence but when he didn’t, the doctor asked, “Have you been keeping yourself busy these past few days? Were you seeing some friends?”

“Not much, really.”

“And why is that?”

Arthur twitched to his side. “Well, as you know, I never bother calling anyone, knowing they all are busy with work and since nobody has phoned me lately, I assumed they’re all occupied at the moment. But…”

“But?”

“Do you remember what I told you last time? About joining an art exhibit in New York?”

“Yes, and what about it?”

Arthur began running his fingers through the plush toy’s fur. “I spent days roaming around the city, trying to find a muse. You know, inspiration-shopping for motivation. It came to the point when I almost gave up with my plan because I wasn’t getting any driving force at all,” He fixed a gaze on the Japanese, as if challenging the doctor to complain about yet another impulsive change of plan, a relatively long-term plan that might be the stepping stone to redeem him from his state.

One of Arthur’s biggest challenges was the incapability to envision what he wanted to do with his life and his future. As of the moment, there was no denying that he wasn’t doing very well with his freelance career, but then again what other card did he have in his deck considering that he wasn’t ready to go back to university? With whatever option he had, it was hindered by factors like the demanding qualifications for job applicants and the contracting economy in the bigger picture. Besides, he couldn’t stand any job other than what he loved the most: art. This explained Arthur’s long history of job hunting and ever-changing career in the last two years.

“But you’re holding on to it,” Dr. Honda guessed.

Arthur nodded. “One night I had a dream about spending time alone at the park, reading _Dorian Gray_ when a dog pounced on me out of the blue and the annoying owner apologized like crazy for letting the dog slip out of his sight and jumping at me and ruining my book and all. Apparently, he realized how the book means to me and strangely enough I found him… interesting. I mean except for my Lit teachers, I rarely meet people who openly discuss a novel with me, much less a classic favorite! Man, I’m sorry, I must be creeping you out with all these stupid things I’ve been telling you.”

Dr. Honda chuckled.

“What?”

“You’re already ranting like an American.”

Arthur blushed at the assessment. “Well, I’d rather sound like a yank than a frog, to be honest.”

“I thought we’re not using the f-word anymore?”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Let’s go back to the reason why I’m dragging my sorry ass in here every two weeks, shall we?”

Dr. Honda gave an approving nod.

Arthur shifted to a sitting position. “Okay. Once upon a time I was truly, madly, deeply in love with Francis ‒ I knew he was a frog by then, but I loved him nonetheless ‒ and everything was bright and beautiful and all that romantic shit you see in the movies until it all became ugly and abusive and I was diagnosed with this… this bullcrap and the frog gave up on me when I needed him the most, ending the _first_ and _only_ long-term relationship I ever had. Tragic, isn’t it? My world fell apart, _that_ I was sure of, and I found myself stuck in a hellhole so I flew here to start over again, back to zero. My next relationships weren’t any better but I’d rather hurt than feel empty and it all got more abusive in time until they couldn’t stand me anymore, me being an attention whore, me being a paranoid wreck, me being plainly insane. I know I’m not making it easy for everyone but it’s never easier in my part...”

There was a time when Arthur avoided talking about his sexuality, but that time was long gone as he sought the courage to step out of the closet and embrace all that he was.

His mother was the only one to show support from the family, foreseen, though he found it exceedingly awkward to discuss with her his romantic life and sexual needs. He wasn’t entirely close to his stepfather who remained neutral with the matter, so neutral he could send Switzerland’s neutrality to question. His brothers were a different story ‒ they were the ones who took it hard and openly showed discomfort with their youngest brother coming out. They bullied him about it but Arthur never bothered to tell their mum as long as she was there for him.

Dr. Honda listened faithfully, his face a smooth mask of altering expressions, depending on his patient’s atmosphere.

Oddly enough, Arthur hadn’t felt discomfort opening up to him. Maybe because the doctor was also openly gay and could understand him from personal experience, maybe because he was paid to do his job. But beyond that, Arthur was also able to establish a personal relationship with his doctor; the other may not be aware of it but Arthur treated him as a friend, the only true friend he ever had even though both of them knew the doctor was keeping an eye on Arthur for his mum who was a close family friend.

Trust was difficult to gain from the Brit; he didn’t completely trust his ‘friends’. It was only Dr. Honda ‒ Kiku, if they were outside his office ‒ whom he shared his secrets with such ease.

“…and I still can’t over the fact that the git paid more attention to his Plants vs. Zombies more than me! For heaven’s sake, he just got up on his ass to pig out and swallow the contents of my fridge, we never even fucked!” Arthur recounted his latest affair, much to his disappointment. “Am I that difficult to love? I just need someone who can square up with my shit every day. I’m not looking for Prince Charming!” He tangled his fingers through his hair, gripping it hard enough to pull every strand. “The frog and the others made it clear they weren’t up for the challenge. I’ll probably die alone…”

Dr. Honda blinked; studying his patient’s distressed form. “Let’s go back to the stranger in your dreams.”

“What about him?”

“A while ago you were telling me about the stranger in your dreams. Your newfound inspiration. Tell me about him.”

“Oh. Oh, right.”

Arthur got on his feet and rummaged through his knapsack, pulling his sleeves up without second thoughts. Dr. Honda knew well what was underneath them after all.

“I made these the next morning,” Arthur handed a pile of papers to the doctor.

Dr. Honda took them in his slim hands and observed the sketches with an expectant gaze. He studied every detail, brushing his fingers across the sheet as if waiting for the figure to pop out of the paper.

“This is impressive,” Dr. Honda said; his eyes on Arthur who paced restlessly around his office.

“No no no no _no_ , it can’t be, it can’t fucking be!” The patient spun in realization.

“What?”

“God, I’m going batshit crazy! This can’t be!” Arthur raised his arms over his head like he was drowning.

“What is it?”

“I’m- I’m obsessed with my own imagination!”

“Arthur, are you sure you just made him up? Are you sure you’ve never met him before?”

“Never, if my dreams don’t count. How else could I meet him? A party inside my trousers?”

“Alright then, take a seat and tell me more about him.”

Arthur did as he was told and grabbed the plush mint bunny to his chest. “He has blond hair, golden if bathed in sunlight, with that funny cowlick sticking out of his widow’s peak. His nose is his insecurity: straight, almost perfect and ends with a soft, curvy tip. Though it’s nothing to be insecure about, he’s very uncomfortable with it. He speaks with a West Coast accent. He has high cheek bones, a well-built structure, and a dimpled smile. The sound of his voice and his laughter win the ladies, but the ones that get them the most are his eyes, sparkling ice blue yet filled with sincerity.”

Dr. Honda listened as Arthur poetically described the sketches in his hands, a policeman doing a cross-examination.

“He hates it when people forget his middle name. Music is his life. He learned to play the piano before he could write and learned many other instruments, the guitar his favorite. He has 3000 songs in his iPod, almost all the different genres in his collection. My Chemical Romance and Fall Out Boy were his childhood heroes and he got depressed for a week when he heard MCR broke up. He loves reading books and is a lot smarter than what he lets on,” Arthur mused.

“What’s his name?”

“Alfred Foster Jones.”

☆

_“You made me your muse? Wow, I didn’t know you like me that much!”_

_“I didn’t know you’re a bigheaded idiot.”_

_“Right on. Thanks for painting me to life, Artie. See you around!”_   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone! Welcome to my first multi-chaptered story. Tell me what you think! =w=


	2. Alfred Foster Jones

It was one of those infrequent days when Arthur didn’t feel like ripping his throat open because half of him 1) kept nagging about his artwork, 2) questioned every stroke of ink on paper, and/or 3) shattered his conviction.

For the first time in what felt like a month or so, everything seemed perfectly fine. The sun wished him a good morning like a loving mother waking her child for a cup of hot chocolate in wintertime. Underneath him, grass blades danced to the rhythm of the soft humming of wind, more and more inviting as he spent another day at the park; his pen pirouetting around the Moleskine Folio on his lap, as if his hand had a mind of its own. He couldn’t stop.

Creativity had never been this generous to him before, it was almost utopian… bizarre. But it didn’t matter. He was going to prowl at the chance and work all day doing the same thing, creating and recreating the same enthralling face in his dreams, linking lines, curves, and shapes, splashing colors on papers and canvases like what he’d been doing for days. Or was it a week already? He couldn’t keep track as his train of thoughts was ‒

_No no no no! That’s impossible. You’re not in Wonderland and most certainly you’re not Alice, for God’s sake! Wake up!_

He blinked, absorbing the sudden view ‒ the _figure_ ‒ traversing his eyesight.

_Stop it, Arthur. You’re overthinking._

His heart hammered out of his chest though he strongly believed his eyes were the traitors.

There was the sprinting figure, dashing across Arthur’s line of vision a few meters away from him, the figure of a complete replica of the sketch on his paper, of the painting in his canvas, of the stranger in his dreams. He kept running in a white and blue turtleneck tracksuit, sprinting not with a silvery husky, but a German shepherd by his side. He kept running, oblivious of the lime green eyes watching him completely spellbound. He kept running… fading away from Arthur’s eyesight.

Arthur shook his head with the thought of shaking his mind’s cruel trick away.

_Better get your arse back home and pop a pill before that dog introduces your face to the soil._

☆

“Okay, who’s next?”

The night was young, but humid with spirits, sweat, and kisses; bombarded by flamboyant music that resonated ocean deep for someone who had one too many cups; misted over by clawing smoke and radioactive dancing lights.

Arthur raised his voice over the invincible music like a child fighting for his parents’ attention. While he asked his friends who were next in line to toss balls across the beer pong table, a team from the previous game didn’t seem to recover from their loss.

“This is _unfair_! I demand another rematch!” Mathias declared; words strung in a slur.

Berwald chuckled as his partner, Tino, flashed a complacent smile. Three rounds of beer pong won against the same opponents who were still asking for a rematch, the Swede and the Finn couldn’t help but be amused by their opponents’ sheer persistence.

Lukas rolled his eyes. He could _never_ get over Mathias being a sore loser. “Knock it off, Mathias. _I’ll_ give you a rematch.”

Without giving his partner the chance to ponder on his words, Lukas locked his lips against Mathias’, firm and fierce, rendering everyone speechless by his sudden display of fervent affection that only happens, well, once in a blue moon.

“Get a room, you two!” Gilbert cheered, accompanied by wolf whistles from their little crowd.

Mathias smiled into the kiss and let Lukas take him by the hand, both of them disappearing into a dark corner.  

After it was clear that there wouldn’t be another rematch between Berwald and Tino against Mathias and Lukas, the table was soon taken over by Ludwig and Feliciano together with Antonio and Lovino.

“You better not screw this up or so help me I’ll feed your chorizos to that beer sucker’s dogs!” Lovino nudged his Spaniard in the rib and glared at his brother’s lover.

“Blackie, Berlitz, and Aster will be pleased!” Feliciano said on a sing-song voice under Ludwig’s embrace.

Ludwig simply chuckled and planted a kiss on Feliciano’s forehead, much to the Italian’s delight.

“I will never let those little monsters get their paws on my chorizos! C’mon, Lovi, let’s get it on!” Antonio said.

Arthur never thought he would ever have such a crazy set of friends when he flew to the country, but fate sent them to him in the most peculiar, unexpected times until, little by little, he found himself inside their circle, defining crazy almost every Saturday night.

It all began one night when Arthur’s car got stuck in the middle of nowhere (he still couldn’t recall why he ended up there in the first place) and was found by two brothers who happened to be mechanics, Gilbert and Ludwig, and were kind enough to lend a hand and fix his car. Arthur paid them back with free drinks as soon as they returned to the city.

The next week, Arthur met Berwald who was managing a family-owned furniture shop downtown while he was redesigning his newly acquired flat. Arthur was soon to learn that the Swede knew Gilbert and Ludwig through Tino, Mathias, and Lukas who were working on a local toy store whose frequent hang out place was the pizzeria-by-day/discotheque-by-night owned by Feliciano (who was dating Ludwig) and his brother Lovino who was dating Antonio who supplied liquor to the Italian brothers who were in close relations with Elizaveta, the model Arthur worked with once for a photoshoot project who also happened to be Gilbert’s fiancée.

Small world, isn’t it?

The next thing he knew, he was blowing his paycheck on booze and having fun with his newfound friends the Arthur way, the extreme kind of fun. 

It used to be an all-boys night out (dare they call it) until Elizaveta joined the party, but it wasn’t like it changed anything at all. _She’s one of the boys,_ Gilbert once said, only to be hit by a greasy frying pan fresh from their kitchen sink.

It wasn’t long until Arthur’s friends gave up on beer pong. Antonio and Lovino won their match, to Antonio’s relief with his dear chorizos safe and sound. The consequences were more of a luxury for Ludwig each time Feliciano missed the targets, so it was more of a win-win situation. They settled down around their table, some of them worn out, some a little too drunk, and some missing, quoting Berwald as he referred to Mathias and Lukas.

Arthur took a seat next to Gilbert who was holding Elizaveta on his lap while talking a mile a minute with the rest of their friends. Another night out with friends, another night of discreet glances of jealousy for being the only odd one out. Because of that, Arthur had become their favorite plaything, pushing him around, setting him up for ambush dates he never asked for. The fuckers.

Gilbert twirled Elizaveta’s bronze locks around his finger while blowing his own horn about the wedding that would take place a few weeks from now, inducing his friends to follow the lead. “You have twelve states to choose from, dammit! What are you waiting for?”

Berwald, Tino, Antonio, Lovino, Ludwig, and Feliciano (Mathias and Lukas still hadn’t shown up) sat wordless as they ran out of excuse not to tie the knot close to Gilbert and Elizaveta’s special day. It was either their savings still weren’t enough or they didn’t have to get married to profess their love for each other.

“And you, the green-eyed monster.”

Of course. Arthur wouldn’t be spared from Gilbert’s slurred tirades. “You can’t always be the beer pong referee. Why don’t you just strut your sassy British ass out there and get another partner? Someone’s waiting for you!”

“Yeah, Arthur. Why don’t you give it another try?” Tino asked across the table, his violet eyes drooping with sleepiness, a hand stroking Berwald’s.

All eyes were on him and Arthur just laughed it off. Gilbert didn’t have to shove it to his face that he was the only one who didn’t have a long-term partner but no, thanks. For now he was happy to be the one, two, three, four… eleventh wheel of the bunch.

“What’s so funny, punk?”

“You guys, I’m trying, I’m trying! But remember last time? When did it ever work? The time before that? The bloody git just spread his legs and knocked me out and the next morning I was flat broke! And the time before that‒”

“We know your list can go on forever if we’re tracking your exes for the past, what six, five months? But we’re not tagging you along for no reason, you know.”

Arthur felt a pair of insistent hands push him from his chair to the other side of the room where everyone was laughing, kissing, drinking, smoking, and dancing senseless.

_Here we go again._

He didn’t want to be a spoilsport so he consented wherever his friends pushed him, his night cloudy with new faces, random questions, and unfamiliar laughter mingled into the bowl of certainty that he would never meet them again after tonight.

But there was a face he swore he’d seen before ‒ a face radiating with too much familiarity right from the moment he emerged into this faintly lit box of music, smoke, and liquor. He was the face Arthur saw the last time he was at the park, the figure running around with a German shepherd ‒

_Go home, Arthur. You’re drunk._

Arthur’s eyes followed the familiar face until it vanished along the sea of complete strangers.

☆

A few more drinks and everything was hazy like images in a vague dream.

It was unusually noisy, irritating, disturbing, scrambled with panicked screaming. Arthur felt a stir of anger, confusion, and discomfort.

Red. Black. Red. Black. Red. Black.

What was going on?

_Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump._

He opened his mouth to speak but no sound came out, only salty, metallic liquid oozing out of his lips. Knuckles connected to flesh. Cold floor caught palms and kissed heads. Mouths babbled unintelligibly, suspending hot air in the unsettled atmosphere.

Sore cheekbones, broken nose.

Shaky knees, pressing hands.

Hearts racing out of rhythm.

Vision blurred.

Did he hear his name?

Lights out.

☆

Arthur’s eyelids were heavy as a boulder and so was the rest of his body. Every inch of him hurt as if he’d been a human carpet on a Jurassic stampede overnight. The mattress underneath him felt like marble floor.

What happened?

He mounted on his elbows and groaned as he met the sharp, slashing pain in his head, arms, torso… hell, even his eyebrows hurt! The room spun like he was riding a lightning-speed merry-go-round operated by an ecstasy addict. His breathing caught a strange pace and he reached the bridge of his nose, feeling the papery texture glued on it, covering a sore, unpleasant sensation congratulating him that he got his nose broken last night. Again. His fingers trailed along his face, dabbing and tapping until he found another aching spot right beside the corner of his mouth. Wow, he must have had his face rearranged pretty well last night! But it was just one of those many nights in his twenty-three years of existence, nothing new. It was more of a skill than a hobby, although people always assumed it was the second one.

Arthur sank back to the mattress, realizing he was only in his underwear. He released a sigh of relief as he commended himself for making the right decision to wear plain black boxers (something decent, in short), a far cry from his usual peculiar choices.

The light snoring of the sleeping figure beside him cautioned the Brit that he wasn’t alone. A little more alarming when he made out it wasn’t _his_ bed after all. From where he was lying, all Arthur could see was the stranger’s rumpled blond hair buried in the pillow, jaw line prominent as his face was drawn to the opposite side of the bed, tanned upper body exposed while the blanket they shared flagrantly covered just the lower half of his body, which was more amusing than startling.

It wasn’t the first time Arthur woke up next to a stranger. He begged his brains for a flashback. Was he his overnight lover? Did Arthur seduce him to take him home and spend the night on his bed? Was he the reason why Arthur was aching and broken? Arthur twitched subtly, careful not to wake his companion, whoever he was. Oddly enough, there was an absence of pain in his hips or between his legs – something that never happened after spending a night with someone he couldn’t remember the next morning, let alone he woke up with his underwear on!

He wasn’t any of Arthur’s friends, was he? If so, Arthur could’ve recognized him at first sight even without seeing his face. To kill his curiosity, the Brit leaned closer towards his mysterious companion and saw the last face he expected to see.  

Arthur’s skin crawled.

He couldn’t remember selling his soul to bring _him_ to life! With a yelp, he bounced away from the – the stranger, back against the wall on his side of the bed, but it was too late before he slithered his way out.

“Hands off my hamburger!” The stranger yelled and bolted upright, his fancy dream interrupted by the loud, agitated gasp. He snatched his eyeglasses from the nightstand to correct his blurred vision.

Arthur was a lizard plastered on the wall, blood immediately draining out of his system, evaporating in the air, leaving his face paper white. “S-Stay away!”

He was met with electric blue eyes wide as saucers, mirroring his exact staggered expression. The stranger held his hands in surrender. “Whoa there, dude, calm down! It wasn’t meant for you!”

“Don’t touch me!” Arthur ordered. If it was possible, he was still pushing himself against the wall, concrete absorbing his skull, just to be out of the stranger’s touch.

“Dude, you’re freaking out like a lady. It’s not like I raped you or anything,” the stranger smiled, dimpled with conceit.

Arthur furrowed his eyebrows. How he wanted to manhandle the arrogant stranger! He didn’t have the right to talk to him that way. He was just a… a painting, a talking painting in flesh and blood! Any second, he would wake up from this weird dream, and he’d be crawling out of his own bed and make some toast while working on his studio. Just. Like. Any. Other. Typical. Day.

Arthur didn’t answer. Instead, he released the breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“Don’t try your James Bond stunts on me now,” the stranger chuckled, watching Arthur as if he was a circus animal. He corrected himself into a sitting position, still a good distance from his paranoid guest. “In fairness, you put up a pretty good fight. You just got us kicked out of the bar a little early. Obviously, I lost the chance of getting laid last night, so you kind of owe me.”

It was the stranger’s turn to study Arthur’s form up-close, x-ray scanner eyes drawing an invisible vertical line from his forehead down to his bare torso. He smiled in amusement, as if discovering a hidden treasure.

“Nice tattoo you got there, by the way,” he said and pointed at the gothic clock inked on Arthur’s stomach, a stark contrast to his pale skin. It was positioned in such an interesting spot, somewhere people wouldn’t simply consider, like it wasn’t just there for aesthetics, like it had another purpose… to conceal a scar, perhaps?

Before the stranger could take a closer look at it, Arthur yanked the entire blanket to himself, to cover the part of his body where the mark was, stripping the warmth out of the stranger, and leaving him to his star spangled boxers. Oh, the bloody patriot.

“I don’t owe you anything,” Arthur said, hands tight on the blanket.

“Oh, sure you do, limey! You’re in my place after all,” the stranger was even more amused at the Brit as a soft tint of red sprayed across his face.

Arthur slapped his forehead. “What the bloody hell am I doing here?”

“Good question.” The stranger’s eyes traced their discarded clothes on the floor. “Like I told you, I went out last night to get hammered so I went to this bar and had a couple of drinks with my grade school friends Gilbert and Ludwig. Man, those brothers are _sick_. They slurp beer like water!”

“Tell me about it,” Arthur said, recalling the first night they had drinks together. Because he could barely get up without falling on the floor the following day, he made a mental note not to drink like that again unless he wanted to lose his liver in no time.

“Anyway, it was Happy Saturday with their friends and you happened to be one of them who eventually got into this huge-ass fight with some fellas we never met before. You don’t remember, no?” the stranger said.

Arthur shook his head in shame. When would he ever stop getting himself into troubles like that?

“We didn’t know how it happened, it just did. Your friends said you just slipped out of their sight and the next thing they knew you were knocking the lights out of those fellas. I’m telling you it was sick, dude. Saw it myself. But yeah, getting kicked out of the bar was cooler than spending the night in jail,” the stranger went on.

While last night’s events were on a verbal rewind, Arthur tried to get even the slightest glimpse of what happened from his own brain. He frowned as all he got were fuzzy pictures.

“Everything went crazy and the people were practically all over the place. Gilbert asked me where I live so I told him my address and apparently, he said you live in the same apartment complex, just outside my door to be exact, so he asked me a favor of taking you home.”

“ _What?!_ We live next to each other? We’re _neighbors_?”

“Open the door if you don’t believe me. I moved in three months ago, to the only vacant unit two floors below, replacing my brother who’s now in France living with his boyfriend. I moved in this unit just two weeks ago, though.”

“W-We’re living on the same building for three months already… you’re living next to my unit for two weeks… you’re brother’s in _France_ … with his _boyfriend_ …” Arthur spat the last words with utter disgust.

“Geez, do you really have to repeat everything I say?”

“Sorry,” Arthur snapped out of his thoughts.

“Alright, so there I was, a Good Samaritan taking a drunk and bloodied friend’s friend I sort of met at the party. But then when we reached your door, I couldn’t find the keys and you were too passed out to tell me where the spare keys were, if you even have any, so I was left with no choice but to take you in my own space just for the night.”

Arthur ran his fingers through the little bandage on the bridge of his nose.

“Yeah, you’re welcome. The moment I was finished fixing you up, you began stripping because you said you were hot. Do you still want me to proceed?”

Arthur opened his mouth but it took a while to produce the words.

“I-I think that’s enough information already,” he said. He really didn’t want to know what happened next. “I have to go.”

The Brit leaped out of the bed and hurried to retrieve the clothes he abandoned on the floor. He put his rugged pants on, wallet and phone still in their respective places, and felt frosty blue eyes watching him from behind, their owner rooted in his seat.

“Thank you so much for, er, everything,” he said, slipping on his red shirt.

“No prob, Artie.”

Arthur glanced over his shoulder.

“What did you just call me?”

“Artie,” the stranger repeated conveniently. “Like, from your name: Arthur Cedric Kirkland.”

Arthur cringed at his full name. “How did you know my name? I don’t think we’ve ever been introduced to each other, formally, I mean.”

“That’s because you were busy having your nose broken last night,” the stranger laughed, rising from his seat.

The Brit set his jaw, ready to reach the door knob.

“As much as I want to break it to you gently that I’m not your stalker,” the stranger said. “Your door says so.”

“O-Oh, right.”

The stranger stretched a hand towards Arthur. “Alfred Foster Jones. Nice meeting you.”

They shook hands and said goodbye.

Once Arthur locked himself inside his unit, which was right outside the stranger’s – Alfred’s – just like he said, he sank against the door and reached for his phone with one person in mind: Dr. Kiku Honda.

“Please pick it up,” Arthur whispered and closed his eyes, repeating the words like a prayer.

_Pick it up. Pick it up. Please, pick it up. Pick it up. Please._

☆

“He’s alive!”

Dr. Kiku Honda watched as his patient paced restlessly in circles like a squirrel that munched three sacks of coffee beans. Earlier this morning, he received a call from Arthur Kirkland, suggesting a meeting as soon as possible, and there he was sitting on his office chair, listening to his patient’s frantic ranting instead of having lunch with his Greek boyfriend.

“I-I-I can’t believe it, we even shook hands! He’s my fucking neighbor!”

Forget the couch. Arthur could talk better pacing around, but he was talking too fast, his breath couldn’t catch up. Right from the moment he entered the doctor’s office, he’d been spilling about his Saturday night, the bar fight, and this morning when he woke up next to _him_. He couldn’t believe Alfred popped out of his imagination; there should be a scientific explanation behind that!

Dr. Honda listened as he counted the fresh injuries in Arthur’s skin. A cut near the right eyebrow, a broken nose, one bruise on the corner of his mouth, and one too many in his arms. For sure, there were many others in his upper body, but the last time was still worse.

“Are you sure it wasn’t a dream?” Dr. Honda asked, forcing Arthur to a full stop.

His patient’s fiery eyes locked with his. “I know I said I was going batshit crazy last time but I’m telling you, _he’s alive_!”

Their conversation lasted for twenty more minutes until Arthur was sent home, prescribed with a new set of meds, and advised to see more friends, perhaps at daytime when he didn’t have to get himself drunk to have fun.

In his room, he stared blankly at the ceiling. He didn’t bother checking on his neighbor to see if he was still there or if he already went back to Arthur’s paintings. He wanted to call his friends, especially Gilbert, to ask them what really happened that night. Before he could dial anyone, he realized his mother had just left him a message.

_Hello, darling. You haven’t called for days. How are you feeling? I just received a message from Dr. Honda about your last visit. Would you like me to come over?_

Arthur felt doomed, betrayed.

Why wouldn’t anybody believe him?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How about that for Alfred’s first appearance? Is he real or a mere figment of Arthur’s imagination?
> 
> Next chapter is just a click away. ovo


	3. A Beautiful Mess

“Let me repeat what you just said ‒”

“If you keep repeating what everyone just told you, you might want to have your ears checked, y’ know.”

Alfred’s palm was flat against the door before Arthur had the chance to slam it flat against his neighbor’s face. Alfred was pushing his luck. It was bad enough raising the alarm concerning Arthur’s troubled mental health; on top of that, put the Brit on another set of meds that weren’t a necessity had _that_ incident never happened. And now, _this?_

“C’mon, Artie —”

“You’re not allowed to call me that.”

“Alright – _Arthur_ – _please?_ How can you turn your back on a friend when he needs you the most? Let alone someone who did you a huge favor that probably saved your life that night –”

There was no need for Alfred to finish his sentence as the door was pulled wide open, begrudgingly or not, before the poor boy could beg and get down on his knees and cry Arthur a river. The Brit chose to spare himself from the flood. He could barely stand the kicked puppy dog pout, topped with those big, glossy (not to mention childish) blue eyes. He had too much verbal guilt tripping already, his ears pleading not to hear the rewind of the wreckage from his last night out.

“THANK YOU!”

The eight fat letters were nearly visible in the air as they were puffed out in great relief. Skeptic eyes flickered down the bags and boxes arranged outside Arthur’s door, Alfred being the biggest package of them all, waiting to be towed inside his home.

Just when he thought he could get rid of this absurdity after paying his last visit to Dr. Honda, Arthur was proven wrong this morning when his neighbor came knocking on his door a few minutes ago, breaking the news: Alfred had to move out of his unit as he wouldn’t be able to maintain it along with all the dues he accumulated in the past months, impulsive spending be damned. He had no other place to crash into; none he could think of. All his friends had too much trouble in their own plates already.

Questions and arguments were repeatedly hurled to Alfred’s end, but he had every justification to persuade his British neighbor with his wishes, the virtue of returning a favor the ace on his deck, leaving Arthur with no choice but to embark himself in the next chapter of Arthur’s Adventures in Mindfuckland.

Arthur strode towards the kitchen while Alfred hauled inside what was left of his belongings. He didn’t have much; only a handful of bags, boxes, and a guitar case, nothing threatening to Arthur’s own little space. 

“Would you like a cup of tea?”

With the warm kettle sitting on the stove, Arthur reached for two mugs from the wooden cabinet. He heard a snort from the living room.

“You drink _tea_?” Alfred spat, materializing inside the kitchen, his face of a seven-year-old’s watching an alien march out of a spaceship that just landed from Sunflower galaxy.

“You eat hamburgers?!” Arthur retorted; exaggerating Alfred’s astonished look, eyes wide with acidic sarcasm.  

Alfred suppressed his laughter. “Sorry, man, you just–” He gestured at the other man’s slightly shorter stature with ink black dress shirt, brutally torn jeans, and greasy canvas sneakers. “–don’t look like the type who drinks tea. But no, thanks. I prefer coffee.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow as he slid on the counter seat, content with his morning drink. “Suit yourself.”

“May I?” Alfred pointed at the coffee maker and met the owner’s approval. “Don’t worry. I’ll try not to abuse your hospitality. I may be a freeloader for some time but just give me a while to pay all my dues and I’ll be gone.”

“You better do. I can barely fend for myself as much as you do. You shan’t be surprised if I’ll be kicked out in the cold one of these days,” Arthur lifted his mug, lips curling to an upward slit.

“The landlady told me it won’t be any day this month, so that’s okay,” Alfred said, pouring the dark liquid into his own glass. “I’ll have enough time to look for new jobs and get the hell out of here in no time…. Hey, I can clean your home for you if you want to!”

“If you won’t be gone by tomorrow with the rest of my apartment, so be it.” Arthur teased, squashing a sugar cube with his teaspoon until the glittery dust dispersed on his plate.

Alfred chuckled. “I have the most inconsistent timetable in the Earth’s entire surface. I don’t think I’ll have the chance to empty this place.”

“Wonder what you do for a living other than crashing into people’s homes.”

Twirling the spoon between his fingers, Alfred answered, “Right now, I work at a coffee shop downtown. I do gigs with my band mates sometimes, but that comes like once in a blue moon and it’s totally random. I used to be a dog walker, but my bosses said they had to tighten the belt at times like these, so that’s one job I just lost.”

Arthur shifted his gaze from his own childish game to the person across the counter, and studied his face for a moment. “Aren’t you a little young to work and live on your own? I mean, aren’t you supposed to be—?”

“—At school? In college?” Alfred predicted. “I figured universities could use one less knucklehead out of their grounds!”  

Arthur’s eyes narrowed into inquisitive slits. “How old are you?”

“Old enough to be kicked out of foster homes I couldn’t count with my ten fingers,” Alfred snickered and took a sip of his coffee. “Nineteen.”

Silence reigned for a moment, the two of them deciding whether to step into the landmine ahead.

“Mind to give me a little sneak peek of your life story?” Arthur volunteered.

“Only if you can stick around for a while,” Alfred challenged.

Arthur glanced at the watch in his wrist. “I have forty-three minutes.”

The American smiled and drummed his fingers on his chin, pensive. “Oh, where to start? Where to start?”

“Come on!” Arthur slammed his palm against the tiled countertop. “You were born by the time I was learning to read. It’s not like I’m asking you to recall all your past lives!”

“Right on,” Alfred laughed then shifted on his seat and took a deep breath, azure eyes taking sudden interest on his mug. “Well… like I just told you, I spent a third of my life running away. I’ve been hopping from one foster home to another since I can remember. Don’t ask me why – I don’t know either. Maybe I’m just looking for a place I can call home, I don’t know. I met different people, spent good and bad times with them… I watched the years pass by like how I watched people leave, _my friends_ leave, and have families they now call their own.”

Maybe it was because of all the people Alfred encountered that he was able to speak about his life like an open book, lessened discomfort if not with complete ease. He continued, “Then finally, when I was 12, my lifetime prayers were heard. I was adopted by a Canadian couple with an only child, Matthew – the brother I already told you about – and those were the awesomest years of my life, I have to say! But now we parted ways. He just left for France to study and he’s living with his lover. If I’m not mistaken, he’s around your age, Mattie’s boyfriend…”

“You still haven’t told me why you’re not in school,” Arthur pinpointed.

“I’m getting there!” Alfred said, once again shifting on his seat. “So yeah, Mattie’s in Europe for college while I’m here, well, doing what I’m doing. I actually entered university last year – Psychology major, how about that? But there came a day that I decided to stop and just drop out. I told our parents that I want to be on my own again and they let me go just like that. They kept offering support but I refused; it may sound cliché, but I wanted to find myself and discover life and learn on my own. I want adventure; I want to be out there! So I looked for jobs to support myself, drove from one city to another, kept in touch with my family, until I settled in this city. And here I am homeless and broke.”

“Tough life,” Arthur commented and crossed his arms, glance not tearing away from Alfred as he listened to his summarized autobiography.  

“I know,” Alfred said. “Why am I even telling you this jackshit? What if you’re a CIA agent?”

“Excuse _you_.” Arthur rose from his seat, placing his mug on the sink. “Do I strike you as someone who works for your government, yank?”

“Where are you going?” Alfred also finished his drink and did the same.

“Around your new temporary home. My little empire,” Arthur answered. “Follow me, minion.”

Alfred grinned. The deal was on. He would have a place to stay in exchange of his cleaning service. How bad can it be? He trailed behind Arthur who was showing him around the apartment. Alfred studied his surroundings. It wouldn’t be much of an effort to clean the place, if there was anything to clean.

Truth be told, Arthur was doing an excellent job maintaining it – walls boasted phenomenal colors Alfred never thought made sense together, furnishings hoisted on guard in their ideal places, frames plastered the wall with impeccable balance. From the ceiling down to the floor, he was giving dust no reason to exist! The place was a love child of aesthetics and order, an exclusive gallery in its own right.

Yet something prevented Alfred from throwing himself down on his knees to worship Arthur: it was a corner not very far from the two doors he supposed were bedrooms, standing out from the other parts of the apartment. It was an abandoned alley with busted lights, like those gloomy portions in the city you’d want to avoid when walking home at night. Why would it stay that way when the rest of the house was maintained with meticulous beauty?  Was that broken glass on the floor? He winced but he didn’t ask.

“There are actually two bedrooms but I’m using the other one for work,” Arthur twisted the doorknob on the second door and let it ajar.

Alfred exclaimed at the sight unfolding before him. “Whoa! This is what you do for a living?”

“Fair enough to pay rent, yes,” Arthur ran a hand on the back of his head.

The studio was a vivid stream of consciousness. Sunlight danced around every corner from the far-reaching glass windows, curtains laced on opposite sides. Penciled concepts patched the walls, peculiar lines and geometric shapes assembled in startling harmony. Brushes, paint cans, and old newspapers blanketed the floor, stepping stones through the deep pond of imagination. An easel waited still and empty beside the bureau cabinet, a stool resting underneath it. Everywhere was an explosion of striking colors – the night sky on the fourth of July paling in comparison. It was the most beautiful mess Alfred had ever laid his eyes on.  

Paintings of people overshadowed the exhibit under construction; figures and faces of random people you pass by walking around the streets, maybe the park, or people you boarded the subway with; angles, poses and expressions telling their personal stories. Gems to the collection were portraits of women, women of the world – Aphrodite in different faces, sizes, colors, and ages; diverse in form yet sheer beauty omnipresent and indisputable.

The display of countless unfinished canvases caught Alfred’s eye more than anything else in the room. He knew should’ve given it less attention, but it was a purple cow in the middle of a traffic jam.

“Most of them are personal projects, the underpaintings,” Arthur said, as if reading his thoughts. “I’ve always thought about having them finished, but I don’t know what to do with them afterwards.”

On the top of the bureau cabinet sat a fragmentary sculpture of a white angel, wings poised in glory, yet to break away from the block of marble. Alfred leaned closer to take a look at the graceful figure, fighting the urge not to touch it for he knew that if his unworthy fingers touched such implausible brilliance, it would fade away and disintegrate into the river of mind’s eye without moment’s hesitation, never to be seen again.

“You can always sell them,” Alfred suggested, observing and admiring the tiniest details of a complete portrait of a lady in a black gown, taking time to absorb how realistic the painting appeared: like an authentic photograph.

“But who’d want them?” Arthur frowned.

Alfred knitted his eyebrows at the rhetorical question and opened his mouth after a moment but Arthur went on.

“Right now, I’m preparing to join this art exhibit in New York,” Arthur said, sweeping off rubber dust on top of the study table, forgetting the paintings in progress as if he had nothing to do with them anymore, shifting his attention like changing TV channels. “I still don’t know what to paint about, but I’ll proceed anyway. I’ll be going with a Dutch friend I met from a previous exhibit, and I think it’s worth taking a shot… so these underpaintings will have to wait for a while.”

Alfred’s eyes were suddenly somewhere else again. There was something about the bureau cabinet, he felt. Quite strange, Alfred knew, but it was something strongly compelling as if it was begging to be opened that he tried to pull one of the drawers. Fingers stretching a few inches from the knob, he cried as they were swatted away, taking him back to awareness.

“I have to warn you. I’m very strict about my things,” Arthur said, eyes stern with caution. He turned towards the door, leading his guest out.

Giving it a last look over his shoulder, Alfred stepped out of the room.

“The living room is all yours now,” Arthur announced, locking the studio door behind him. “You’ll just have to make do with the couch.”

Alfred smiled and bounced on his new cradle, patenting it to be his and only his. “Better the couch than the streets.”

☆

It had been twenty hours, four minutes, and thirty-three seconds.

Arthur counted in his head, lurking away from his bedroom to inspect the slumbering boy curled up under the newly washed quilt he lent him the night before.

It had been twenty hours, four minutes, and thirty-three seconds since the boy knocked on his door, pleading for a temporary shelter… twenty hours, four minutes, and thirty-three seconds since Arthur let him in his home.

Arthur tiptoed towards the couch and knelt close before the figure, a sly fox prowling down its prey. Lips curled to a faint smile and thick threads of gold dangling aimlessly on his face, Alfred slept like a small child, innocent and vulnerable. He looked angelic, yet so human.

He couldn’t just pop out of Arthur’s imagination, could he? There had to be some logical explanation behind this or else this should pass by as a dream. An absurd, out-of-this-world, way-beyond-anyone’s-sanity dream!

Oh, what had he gotten himself into?

Will there be an explanation about this boy emerging from his paintings? How can someone come into existence from mere cloth canvas, pencil and acrylics?

Confrontation came close when Alfred nearly laid his fingers on the bureau cabinet where Arthur hid the sketches and paintings of the boy, the locks his glorified saviors.

A touch wouldn’t suffice, wouldn’t answer the million-dollar questions in his head, but Arthur couldn’t resist, only to his surprise, bright blue eyes twinkled to life.

“D-Dude, hands off!” Alfred croaked, helplessly flailing his hands in alarm upon realizing the attempted physical contact. “Why are you giving me that look anyway? Was there something on my face?”

He rubbed his eyes and stretched his limbs, yawning sleep away. Arthur’s face was an abrupt, smooth, blank mask.

“You moan and drool in your sleep.”

With that, Arthur got to his feet and disappeared to the kitchen, a robot carrying out his morning routine.

Alfred blinked, taking a second to register what the other said. As his cheeks burned red with embarrassment, his fingers reached for fluids running from the corner of his mouth.

“Did I really?” He muttered under his breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let the British-American cohabitation begin!
> 
> How do you like it so far? Does this story even make sense to you? I hope it does. /shot


	4. Young Volcanoes

Alfred started wondering if he’d just volunteered himself as a human sacrifice to Bigfoot’s lair or signed up for a quest with the lost boys to shave Captain Hook’s right eyebrow. Or probably both.

Because both pertain to the living-with-Arthur-Kirkland experience.

Alfred took pride on his snow globe life, his glitzy nineteen years of existence a miniature world dusted with the mundane and idiosyncratic. He thought he saw it all, had it all vacuumed inside the little glass sphere of glitters and reduced landscape, but there came the untamed, never-before-seen creature called Arthur Kirkland, running out in the open and proving him wrong straight to the face.

Finished wiping down and straightening the furniture, he was on his knees, sorting Arthur’s old files by the coffee table (his task for the week) when the bedroom door clicked open.

“I made breakfast,” he announced, wearing his million-watt grin.

Arthur scurried across the living room – the wind breezing through his button-down shirt, and the floor grumbling under his heavy boots – and side-glanced at the plate on the kitchen island with poached eggs and pan fried bacon.

“I’ll pass,” he said, seizing his car keys from the coffee table.

☆

The British tenant barely stayed inside his own unit, blackout binging every other night it seemed. Just one ring on his slick, black smart phone and he’d be ghosting out the door.

Most times, Alfred would wake up at the most ungodly hours, sweet dreams draining into the retching sounds inside the bathroom like someone was giving birth through the mouth.

The boy would knock and ask if Arthur needed help, but the walking bottle of alcohol and reeking nicotine would misplace his slurred words, smack Alfred’s hand away, and stagger to his bedroom, just to let Alfred know he wasn’t planning to sleep on the bathroom floor.

The next morning would be spent in lamentation as the casualties were to be realized: missing wallet or damaged car, sometimes both.

Sometimes – also at the most ungodly hours – Alfred would wake up to the noise coming from his housemate’s bedroom or studio, the kind of noise often heard from your neighbors doomed for divorce just take away the verbal war, rebelling against the blasting metal background music.

Sometimes he wouldn’t go home at all. He’d be gone two or three days, always arriving in the morning.

Whatever happened during those nights away wasn’t Alfred’s business anymore, not that he cared or anything. How Arthur could live such reckless life with a career adrift, Alfred had no idea. Arthur might be a member of some neighbor-turned-housemate-eating-cult, for all Alfred knew!

But sober mornings were a different story.

Arthur stopped by the coffee table, spared Alfred a glance for the first time of the day, and ran an index finger through the smooth plane of pine wood. He watched the dust particles dance in the air. “Wipe it clean, will you?”

Alfred smiled as his hands searched for the cleaning agents. He muttered while Arthur was walking out of earshot. “As you wish, little prince.”

With the slamming of the door, solitude became Alfred’s company. 

“What the hell!” He whined and flailed his arms in despair as he fell on the floor.

Arthur was a grumpy old man trapped in the body of a rockstar, Alfred swore. It wasn’t like he made it easy for Alfred to live in his home! More often than not, he treated Alfred as if he was an unwelcome presence.

The American couldn’t help but feel like he was being watched with every action he made. Those cold, green eyes observed him closely and constantly, with that undeviating predatory glint, waiting for Alfred to morph back into his original form: a squealing pineapple, a flying hippopotamus, or maybe a fire-breathing mosquito. Whatever the other was expecting, he could never figure out.

And the worst part was no matter how good Alfred did his tasks – how faithfully he followed his orders! – Arthur never acknowledged it. He just bossed around, ordering Alfred another task before the boy could even finish. And if he was on a roll, he would fire more and tell Alfred off and complain about not arranging something the way he was told. He wanted the job done 140% Vladimir Putin perfect or else all the effort would be thrown out in the window. Just. Like. That. Insanity became an understated word to Alfred nowadays.

But what could he do? The guy was kind enough to let him in, so as long as he wasn’t showing any interest for Alfred’s intestines, it _had_ to be endurable.

The desperate boy found himself cursing under his breath in front of the abandoned alley (he decided to call it that). He couldn’t be mistaken. It was the only portion of the house Arthur never instructed him to touch. If Arthur was so obsessed with perfection, why would such horrible thing exist? Was it where Arthur’s victims took their last breath before he ended their sorry lives? He shook the last thought away and studied the view before him. Busted lights hung from the ceiling, broken glass littered the floor along with some unidentifiable debris. It was exactly how it looked like the first time he set foot inside Arthur’s place.

Something had to be done here.

☆

“Is that _Happy Meal_?” Arthur’s voice was toxic with accusation.

Alfred’s arms dropped to his sides, the bags of food in question touching the floor. “What’ve I done wrong this time? You asked me to buy you dinner, I bought you dinner!”

“You call those overly salted, greasy potatoes dinner?”

There were days when Arthur’s home was anarchic, when Alfred could sleep until midday and laze around until the next sunrise, and when he didn’t have to make excuses to escape Arthur’s impossible orders. But they only happen when the master of the house wasn’t around.

Tonight was heavily authoritarian.

“Well, I’m sorry _Your Highness_ ,” Alfred put down the bags on the countertop beside the obsidian ashtray sheltering the growing pile of cardiovascular illness. “I wasn’t informed that you’re on a strictno-overly-salted-greasy-potatoes diet at all.”

He sighed in visible frustration and rummaged inside the bags to expose two yellow trinkets covered in transparent plastic bags.

“I even bought one of these cute little fellas for you before those kiddies hoarded them away! Aren’t I nice?” Alfred’s lips diminished into a pout.

Arthur had a slow drag of his cigarette while keeping an eye on his companion who was giddily freeing the goofy, nearly hairless creatures from their wrappers. They stared back at Arthur with those huge owlish eyes and creepy smiles, secretly saying, _We will ruin everything you believe in_.

Good heavens, even Alfred wasn’t spared from the mania! The boy had been shaking his hips and humming _BA BA BA BABANANA BA BA BA BABANANA NA NA NA AHH POTATO NA AH AH_ repeatedly for a week already, spontaneous to his morning chores and shower time, enough times to rattle Arthur out of his mind.

Arthur puffed and admired the cloud of smoke gracefully uncurling in the air. “I never thought I was living with an adult-sized child all along.”

It caught Alfred in the middle of wolfing down his double cheeseburger. He hesitated for a second, and then opened his mouth again to speak. “A simple ‘thank you’ will suffice.” He batted his eyelashes. “I know you like to have one too.”

“Whatever,” Arthur rolled his eyes, stubbing out yet another shrunken fag against the ashtray.

He fished the box of lung cancer from his back pocket to light another stick, and before any of them realized, bemused blue eyes were caught in a permanent gaze at him as he expertly plucked the emerging stick between his teeth and lips.

“What are you up to when I’m not around?” Arthur asked as he lit the stick, absentmindedly snapping Alfred out of the hypnosis.

Arthur did as Dr. Honda told him – find something to occupy himself and get rid of unnecessary thoughts. He stayed outside his house as much as possible, with high hopes on the boy already evaporated into the atmosphere the next time he passed through the threshold. But to his dismay, he always found him present like a brand new set of furniture he had to get accustomed to.

Alfred shrugged. “Nothing much, just the stuffs you told me to.”

Static filled Arthur’s ears when he heard the words, the unsettling noise almost made him jump out of his seat and curl up on the floor. “Ugh, will you stop using that word?”

“What word?” Alfred asked, wondering why Arthur had that sudden agonized look in his face.

“ _Stuffs_ ,” Arthur blurted the word that Alfred was so fond of abusing, blurted it with irrevocable disdain that the word was probably more polluted than the smoke that escaped his mouth.

Alfred knit his eyebrows. “What’s wrong with it?”

His heart sank for the 4253456948620th time. Arthur sure knew how to make him feel like shit, like everything he did – realigning the fixtures, singing in the shower, laughing, breathing – was a mortal sin. And now, everything he said was blasphemy!

“The word is nonexistent!” Arthur argued with furious hand gestures. “Hell, it doesn’t even deserve a plural form. It doesn’t even mean anything at all!”

Alfred coughed as the secondhand smoke invaded his nostrils. He had to take his eyeglasses off once in a while to wipe away the accumulating fog that kept interrupting his vision. Sticks and stones may break his bones, but Arthur’s smoking wouldn’t spare even the inanimate, lungless objects from ill health.

“The last time I checked the dictionary, it was there!” he countered.

“Oh is that so?” Green eyes widened in feigned surprise. Arthur crossed his arms in a challenging gesture. “Go ahead then. Educate me.”

Could this conversation get any more trivial? Alfred shook his head, but stomped out of the kitchen anyway to retrieve a dictionary (straight from his untouched box, by the way) and began reciting the definitions of the word in criticism.

“Still, it doesn’t mean anything to me,” Arthur slid down from the swivel chair and strutted to the fridge.

_Here we go again._

Alfred’s invalid argument and Arthur’s insufferable rules.

Since time immemorial, (that was how long it felt like to Alfred) they had burning debates of language and cultural differences. It was as frustrating as being taught by someone the proper way of writing his own name.

Arthur insisted that what Alfred called cookies must be called biscuits _inside his territory_ and the same should be followed with things such as ‘chips’, ‘crisps’, ‘fringe’ and all the others, else he would be thrown into the bottomless pit of British wrath.

In the end, the constant rule was simple: Arthur is right, Alfred is wrong.  

Alfred just didn’t know what spirit possessed him one day when he decided to learn the British spelling – the words with _s_ instead of the abrasive _z,_ words with _ou_ instead of just _o_. He didn’t want his housemate to know that the British way was rubbing off his defiant Americanism, but it couldn’t be helped now that Arthur saw Alfred’s note plastered on the fridge door, handwritten large and bold right in front of his face:

_9 o’clock in the mourning_

Had Arthur been sipping his coke, he could’ve choked and spurted the contents all over the floor until it was a hilarious mess.

“So I was right about living with an adult-sized child!” Arthur wheezed for oxygen. “An adult-sized preschooler, to be exact!”

Alfred felt all his blood rush to his face. He tore down the paper from the fridge door. “D-Don’t be such a smart-ass!”

Arthur’s face was also burning red as he couldn’t contain his laughter and leaned against the fridge for support.

“Meanie!”         

The younger blond never imagined that the scowling British pin cushion could laugh outrageously hard, and even if he did, he never dreamed it to be by making a clown out of himself.

Arthur spoke when he finally got a grip of the situation, wiping the happy tears that rolled down his eyes. “I’ll never get why you Americans find it necessary to butcher your own language, _our_ language. Is it really necessary to rebel too much?” He shook his head. “Preposterous!”

“Oh I could’ve guessed!” Alfred rolled his eyes, trying to gain composure and redeem himself from the abyss of humiliation. “You British always tell us we’re wrong no matter what.”

Arthur chuckled and retreated to the living room. “No, you’re wrong there!”

The Brit needed to pack for another weekend, and as terribly as Alfred wanted to deny it, he would be missed.

☆

“Ya like it?”

Arthur was at a total loss of words.

Over the weekend, Alfred finished ‘reconstructing’ the abandoned alley, and now that Arthur had risen from God knows where – from the pits of Tartarus, maybe? – it was about time to know if his efforts were worth anything or nothing at all.

“How… How did you do it?”

Alfred tentatively smiled at the inquiry.

Arthur always ordered the boy to do things how he wanted them done, but to see the house arranged in his absolute liking was a little unthinkable.

“Uh, with the help of my innate awesomeness?”

Arthur nudged him in the ribs. “Git.”

Alfred snickered. “Shall I take it as a compliment?”

Arthur was fond of abusing the three-letter word just as much as Alfred was with _stuff_ and he couldn’t question that? Unfair!

He scratched the back of his head, hesitant. “I was having second thoughts about redecorating it because you never really told me to touch that part of the house, yeah? I mean, it’s not like I’ll ever have enough of your scolding but I decided to give it a try anyway.”

“I-I don’t mind at all. Really,” Arthur said, eyes growing accustomed to the agreeable upgrade. “I just didn’t have time to do it myself… I guess.”

The corner glowed to life. The busted bulbs that he never bothered to replace were swapped into vines of fairy lights that lined the walls, stretching through the shelves and bookcases. A little feminine, but the entire arrangement remained perfectly gender-neutral.

The bookshelf was no longer handicapped. It stood well-founded, giving home to Arthur’s alphabetically orchestrated books. On the next shelf were Arthur’s unicorn collection and figurines of other magical creatures, positioned in harmony. Alfred once made a taunting comment about it, but swore never to do it again when Arthur asked him to drag all his things out of the house.

Gracing the topmost shelf were sculpted marble angels like the unfinished one at the studio, which used to lay wilting with broken wings. Below were their minion toys, sitting goofy and dorky and cute together. Alfred was determined to build his own army of minions, it seemed.

If Arthur had the chance to redecorate the once-neglected corner, it would turn out just the way Alfred did it. He had to give credit to the boy for a good job fixing the things around the house that he wasn’t able to pay attention to in the past months. Seeing his home after a tiresome weekend from work could never be more rewarding.

“Thank you, Alfred,” Arthur said softly, holding back a smile.

“I’m sorry, what was that?” Alfred asked, leaning closer to him.

Arthur snorted. “I said ‘thank you’, prat. I lived long enough to learn manners, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Alfred giggled and reached down to ruffle his light blond hair. “You’re welcome, Artie!”

Arthur wanted to point a finger on what made his blood boil: being called that ridiculous nickname or being reminded of who was taller between the two of them, but he couldn’t place it. Before he could protest, Alfred bounced back to the living room.

“Hey, I’ll be out tomorrow night,” he said, strapping the guitar on his torso.

“Gig?” Arthur carried his duffle bag inside the bedroom.

“Yeah, a lovely lady’s sweet sixteen.” Alfred wiggled his eyebrows. “Don’t miss me too much, ‘kay?”

“Like hell I will,” Arthur stuck out his pierced tongue and crossed his arms, leaning against the wall to face Alfred. “Don’t tell me you’re singing the Banana song with your band.”

Alfred threw his head back in laughter. “You know me too well!”

He turned his back on his sole audience and began snapping. After a few seconds of humming, he strummed his guitar and sang.

 _When Rome's in ruins_  
 _We are the lions_  
 _Free of the coliseums._  
  
 _In poison places,_  
 _We are anti-venom,_  
 _We're the beginning of the end_  
  
 _Tonight the foxes hunt the hounds,_  
 _And it's all over now before it has begun,_  
 _We've already won._  
  
 _We are wild, we are like young volcanoes_  
 _We are wild, Americana, exotica_  
 _Do you wanna feel a little beautiful baby? Yeah!_  

It was only then when Alfred wrapped his head around the fact that Arthur was jumping on the couch, singing along and strumming his own acoustic guitar the boy never knew he had.

Day by day, Alfred learned his housemate a little more. Tonight, Arthur was a mere young blood caged inside the never-ending teenage life with no intention breaking away. His laugh lines were visible under the playful fluorescent lights, his smile reaching his eyes, radiating through his limitless soul.

Arthur was just like him, auspiciously human and probably went through the same human things he had.

Arthur Kirkland wasn’t so bad after all.

_Come on_   
_Make it easy, say I never mattered_   
_Run it up the flagpole_   
_We will teach you how to make boys next door_   
_Out of assholes_

On that last word, Alfred pointed a finger at Arthur who displayed his dirty finger as response. Together they laughed.

 _Tonight the foxes hunt the hounds,_  
 _And it's all over now before it has begun,_  
 _We've already won._  

They were harassing the couch like children, laughing and singing like it was the only thing that mattered, like it was more important than proliferating nuclear weapons or saving the world from the global financial crisis. They kept bouncing up and down. Up and down. Up and down…

 _We are wild, we are like young volcanoes_  
 _We are wild, Americana, exotica_  
 _Do you wanna feel a little beautiful baby? Yeah!_  

Another repeat of the effervescent chorus and their song ended, sending them limply panting on the same couch they tortured. They were fishes out of water and remained that way for the next thirty seconds, concentrating on the rhythm of their breathing.

“You’re really good!”

“For someone who loves singing the Banana song?”

“No, I’m serious! It’s quite surprising you’re not making lots of money with it, really.”

“Just unlucky, I guess?”

Alfred took interest in his guitar as he couldn’t meet the spark on those eyes. “I want to play my own music.”

For a moment, Arthur remained silent, fiddling with the strap on his shoulder. “Remember the Dutch friend I told you about, the one I’m going to New York with?”

“Yeah?”

“He’s working at a recording studio in LA and he has a lot of friends. They can help you chase it,” Arthur said, green eyes searching for their blue counterparts. “I can take you there to meet them.”

Alfred froze at the statement. “Really? You’ll do that for me?”

“Only after you pay your dues,” Arthur said with a stern look. “I don’t like the idea of your cops running after my arse.”

All at once, Alfred’s face glowed brighter than the Times Square at Christmas time.

“That’s the nicest thing you’ll ever do for me, Artie!” He said. The sudden thrill coursed through his system and made him fling his arms around Arthur, enveloping him into a bone-crushing hug.

“One, don’t call me Artie,” Arthur managed to mumble under the younger man’s iron arms. “Two, let go.  You’re crushing me.”

Alfred slipped his arms from Arthur’s shoulders the same manner as his face turned red: slowly and delicately. “Uh, yeah,” he said. “Sorry.”

They scrambled to their feet, but Alfred still couldn’t believe his ears at the agreement. “Promise?”

Arthur turned around to meet Alfred’s hopeful face which was filled with childish charm more than ever. Despite all those clumsy work and immature complaints, he could never really stay mad at him. He could try, but no matter how hard he did, the idiot would find a way or another to reverse that frown etched on his face before the day ended.

Then he realized Alfred’s pinkie finger was extended towards him, awaiting to knot his. 

“I am absolutely _not_ doing the pinkie swear with you,” Arthur said, his face tinted slight pink as well. “But yes, I promise.”

The next thing he knew, Arthur was hugged like he was the remaining teddy bear in the earth after outliving the zombie apocalypse. He paddled his legs but it was no use, his feet couldn’t touch the floor.

“Thank you, Artie!”

Alfred’s feather breath prickled against Arthur’s neck and the Brit flailed around to protest his lack of personal space, but Alfred just laughed it off, knocking the air out of him.

“You twit, put me down this instant!” Arthur struggled, but instead, he was met with those big blue eyes, bottomless pools of excitement and wonder under lazy golden strands.

If he dared to look just a little longer, he was sure to drown.

Finally, Arthur was planted back to the floor, to reality, when Alfred’s phone rang. The boy excused himself and Arthur watched his retreating back, also checking his phone. One message.

_You missed your appointment today._

He slipped the phone back to his pocket. It took less than a minute before Alfred came galloping to his side.

“Looks like LA has to wait for tonight,” Alfred announced, grinning ear to ear. “I got a message from Gilbert. Ludwig’s throwing a party tonight!”

Arthur paled. Memories of their last party together plagued his brain. He knew very well what he had dealt with after that. A little more and he’d be waking up in Narnia. No, he couldn’t afford another episode of mayhem.

“I-I think I’ll have to pass,” Arthur said while mentally screaming.

_No, no, no, no! Not again, not now, not ever! I don’t know if I’m a Catholic or a Protestant, but God if you’re there please send help!_

But Alfred already expressed he wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer. “Don’t try that on me! You’re the one who gets drunk every other night!”

“B-B-But I’m… I’m ill, yes that’s it! I’m not feeling very well tonight, Alfred. You go there and have fun yourself,” Arthur said, pulling his most convincing sickly face.  

Alfred raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t look sick when you were jumping on the couch.”

“I felt it just now. I feel like I’m running a fever.” Arthur placed a hand on his neck, mentally strategizing how he could crawl inside his studio and lock himself overnight if that would save him from the impending episode of delusion.

A hint of concern flickered across Alfred’s face, but it melted the very second he brushed a hand on his forehead. Average human temperature, unless he was under another category. “No, you’re not. Not even close.”

“Er… L-Let me just look for my coat then—”

There was no need for that. Alfred was already waiting by the door, both of their coats on one arm.

Arthur threw his head back, forsaken by the heavens.

“What?” Alfred asked. “You don’t need that posh Burberry of yours, do you? It’s just a house party.”

“Alfred, I—”

“Listen, Artie,” Alfred gripped Arthur’s shoulders with a little firmness, intense eyes fixed on the others’ with undivided attention. “I don’t know what you’re so worried about, but I’m telling you: you don’t have to worry about anything. I’m with you and I’ll take care of you even if you’ll never ask me to.”

Alfred flashed him a bright, confident smile. “Trust me, I’m your hero! Remember last time?”

Arthur’s stomach churned at the question. Right at that moment, he felt like he was running a fever for real. He heaved a sigh.

“Now, put this on and off we go!” Insistently, Alfred offered Arthur his overcoat and even helped him putting it on.

“Hey, I hadn’t had my say to this!”

_A little too late, Arthur, a little too late._

“You’ll thank me later!”

To his surprise, the younger man took him by the hand and led him out the door. The sheer contact sent electricity to his skin, sparks tingling in his bloodstream. Alfred’s hand was warm and soft against his own; almost comforting that he didn’t flinch away.

They marched their way down the compressed and faintly-lit staircase, Arthur’s shoulder brushing against Alfred’s arm. Through the bulletproof silence, the boy’s words echoed in Arthur’s ears, playing on repeat.

_Trust me, I’m your hero!_

Arthur studied their hands underneath, still intertwined. He then looked up and found the idiot’s candlelight grin shining in the dark.

_Are you?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here, have a taste of Alfred’s POV for a change. Can you smell the progressive romance?
> 
> I know there’s no way Despicable Me is released around autumn but the idea of Alfred going out of his way just to get his hands on the Happy Meal toy and singing the Banana and Potato song is just irresistible! And I’m not even sorry. Haha.
> 
> Alfred and Arthur’s duet was Young Volcanoes by Fall Out Boy. I fell in love with the song long before I even discovered the, er, disturbingly beautiful music video. If you haven’t heard it yet, I suggest you do! :D Though I’d rather you listen to the song first before watching the music video, but if you already seen it, I can only feel sorry for your soul.


	5. Run!

“Shut your big mouth and stay still. I got this.” 

“But it hurts like hell! C’mon just strip it off already!”

“Goddammit, Alfred! I said shut your stupid mouth or so help me I will leave you wallowing in hell!”

Alfred knew better than challenging the Brit’s words. Another word and Alfred Foster Jones would be reduced into nothing but human rubble rocketing into the atmosphere, so he pursed his lips like the Brit had demanded for what seemed like eons ago.

“And stop looking at me like that, I’m pressured!” Arthur scolded and sighed with a quivering breath. How could he proceed with the task at hand if those misty ultramarines kept distracting him? “You don’t have to make it as difficult as it is, you know.”

Alfred was about to hide his distressed face under his free arm when – without any warning from the Brit – a tormenting, abrasive sensation tore away from his skin. The American let out a deafening, undignified shriek.

In that moment of unprecedented pain and humiliation, he made a mental never-to-do-again list:

  1. Never permit your sudden urges (e.g. repairing your timeworn guitar case) to lure you out of a pleasurable wedding reception, especially when you know you’re already getting tipsy;
  2. Never lock yourself inside a storeroom full of life-threatening equipments that drunk people should never lay their fingers on;
  3. Never come near a lethal weapon called superglue because there’s a 99.99% chance of accidentally spilling it into your skin while spontaneously (and tactlessly) coming into contact with painfully coarse objects such as sand paper, and finally;
  4. Never _ever_ call a grouchy, paranoid and equally intoxicated Brit for help. 



Some minutes ago, the two of them were laughing and sharing a toast with friends at their round table, taking in the blissful sight of the merriment by the seashore. Alfred and his band mates just finished performing before the amused crowd and were succeeded by another band, while Arthur – the official photographer – was having a short break from his job.  

From their circle they watched the couples sweeping through the dance floor. Gilbert and Elizaveta sat contentedly at their own table, relishing their first little moments as newlyweds.

Alfred decided to excuse himself in the middle of it all and told their friends he needed to do something urgent. Their friends were taken aback about what could be so life-and-death with his guitar case but they let him go without question; the moment of truth came after a short while when Arthur received a message, asking to help him out of his ‘sticky situation’.

Upon finding his flatmate sprawled and slipping in and out of consciousness on the storeroom’s floor, the Brit was torn between bursting into laughter or irritation. Just what the bloody hell was he thinking?!

Arthur needed a couple of seconds to absorb Alfred’s predicament as he waved and smiled at the sight of his savior.  It took all of Arthur’s willpower to suppress his laughter and just free the American from the evil arsenal of sandpapers and superglue.

There was no petroleum jelly and the nearest hospital was ten miles away so Arthur considered the alternative and looked for Elizaveta’s stylist to ask for some acetone. By the time he reached Alfred, the superglue was rapidly drying into his skin and there was no less painful way to get the job done.

“There,” Arthur said like a doctor announcing a successful operation.

Alfred’s face was red and his eyes were wet with tears. He sniffed with relief and uttered a muffled _thank you_. Arthur offered a hand to help Alfred get to his feet and rolled his sleeve to cover the scalded skin.

The walk back to the reception seemed longer with Arthur telling him how to tend the injury, scolding him like an overly protective mother.

 ☆

Alfred and Arthur returned to the party like nothing happened.

“Oh dear, what happened to the two of you?”

Or so they thought.

With a look of apprehension, Tino examined Alfred and Arthur. They were gone for nearly half an hour and approached the table both drenched with sweat.

“Gilbert was looking for you, Al. He was calling all his grade school and high school friends. You too, Arthur. They needed the photographer.”

The American was the one to respond first. “I got lost while looking for the storeroom – this is one hell of a compound, I have to say – so I called Artie for help. He lent me a hand fixing my guitar case.” He nodded and scratched the back of his neck.

“Y-yes. That’s right,” Arthur said, avoiding the sight of Alfred’s face and kept a white knuckle grip on his jeans.

Their friends said nothing but the expression on their faces filled the silence. It was that of a teacher’s, watching first graders tell a lie for the first time.

“Well then, take your seats,” Mathias broke the awkward silence. “You missed a few shots already!”

While talking, the Dane stealthily managed to sliver his arm around Lukas’ shoulders but before he could cling tight, the trick soon failed as Lukas swatted his arm away.

“Ow!”

The rest of the round table roared with laughter.

“You know how couples like those end up,” Feliciano said, grinning and resting his chin on his palm. “Gilbert and Elizaveta used to be like that.”

Antonio nodded. “True, but Gilbert only had the balls to face his feelings after Elizaveta broke up with Roderich.”

“I thought it would take him forever,” Ludwig sighed, placing his empty glass of beer beside Feliciano’s plate. “He used to say he would rather be a bachelor than say ‘I do’ if it’s Elizaveta he’ll be with at the altar.”

“But look at where they are now,” Tino smiled, watching Gilbert and Elizaveta talking, gazing into each other’s eyes as if they could see no one else except their significant other. “Who’s next, guys?”

Silence fell between them while the Middle Ages-themed gathering appeared to be ethereal under the golden rays of light, illuminating the happy revelers – the gentlemen who changed into their buttoned down shirts with sleeves rolled up to their elbows and the ladies in pastel dresses with ribbons, laces and flowers.

Alfred assessed each person sitting at their round table and realized an awkward truth – their round table was for ten people and eight of them were couples sitting together: Tino and Berwald, Mathias and Lukas, Antonio and Lovino and Ludwig and Feliciano. Where was the table for single people? Alfred and Arthur needed to transfer there. Quickly.

“Definitely not us,” Lukas said, breaking Alfred’s chain of thought. He crossed his arms against his chest. “Mathias and I need more time to prepare for that after we finish setting up the bakeshop.”

The Dane’s blue eyes lit up with anticipation. “Really? You’re okay with that?”

“It’s either that or you’re deaf,” Lukas retorted.

Mathias grinned ear to ear and pecked his Norwegian in the lips.

There came more wedding talks, topics that didn’t concern Alfred. His attention was a butterfly fluttering away from his seat, around the waltzing couples, to the amiable waves and back in position when Feliciano called his name.

“How about you, Al?” the younger Italian asked. “Any special someone as of the moment?”

Alfred blinked a few times, his mouth agape as he struggled for an answer. “W-what? Uh, yeah. I mean, _none_! None. N-no special someone.”

He smiled, if that could help make his answer sound more intelligent.

“Oh? That’s a shame,” Feliciano said with a small pout. “But I hope you’re not as stubborn as our Arthur here.”

The Brit rolled his eyes, slammed his glass of beer against the innocent table and preempted any further lectures from the love gurus. “If you people are going to set me up for my wedding day, I’m sure as hell to say ‘no’.”

“Now that’s a bad-ass,” Mathias commented.

“You’re such a heartless monster!” Alfred said.

“Don’t worry you wouldn’t have to see it. I’ll make sure you won’t get invited,” Arthur replied. 

The rest of their friends let out a loud ‘oooh’.

“See, guys? That’s what I’ve been telling you. Tino, Lukas and Arthur get along for a reason and it’s called badassery -” Mathias didn’t finish as he was elbowed at the ribs.

The music switched tempo from mellow to lively and even without hearing the first line of its lyrics, Feliciano grasped Ludwig’s hand.

“Hey, that’s our song!” he said and blazed a trail in the middle of the gathering.

“I’m jealous!” Tino said. Berwald didn’t have to look at those beseeching periwinkles to take his lover to their first dance at the party.

The remaining couples followed the lead and left Alfred and Arthur to themselves.  

“So,” Alfred said. “Who do you think will marry next?”

The Brit hadn’t said much after returning to the table, Alfred noticed. Maybe it was also because he didn’t find the topics interesting, but then again if that’s what they always talk about, it must be horribly sad to be the only one in his set of friends not to have a partner.

“Had I been a minister, I would’ve had those idiots married a long time ago,” Arthur said. “Well, Mathias and Lukas already made it clear that they won’t be next in line…”

He took another sip of his refilled glass of beer. “I never heard Tino and Berwald talk about it,” he continued. “They seemed to avoid it like a plague. Same goes with Antonio and Lovino.”

“How about Ludwig and Feliciano?” Alfred asked.

Arthur pointed at their German friend who had his arms wrapped around his Italian lover. “Did you see how Ludwig was looking at his brother while Gil was exchanging vows with Eliza?” he asked. “That’s how someone looks at his own brother who finally found happiness in another person. And Ludwig wants to feel the same happiness for himself.

“I think they’ll go next. Wanna bet?”

“Nah. Can’t risk losing a couple of bucks no more,” Alfred said and revealed a bottle of coke from underneath the table. “Let’s just play truth or dare.”

“What are you? Some teenage girl?” Arthur scoffed. “And how can you play with that bottle with only two persons, Einstein?”

“Oh come on, don’t be such a fun sucker!” Alfred said.

He thought it was a hopeless case as Arthur’s pierced eyebrows were knitted together, but the Brit sighed and said, “Alright. But with two conditions: no truth, just dare. And do you see that tree over there?”

Arthur pointed at the palm tree a few meters from them.

Alfred nodded.

“If you glue yourself into that tree tonight, I will not help you out and you’ll have to find your way home all by yourself.”

The American laughed and said, “Deal.”

The sun was bidding its warm goodbye. Some guests remained in the circle of slow dance while some changed to their swimwear and waded through the sea. Alfred and Arthur decided they had nothing to do there as their friends were either socializing with other couples or missing in action and they knew what it meant. They also avoided the waters, due to Arthur’s request.

“Since you’re so persistent, I’ll make the first dare. I dare you...” Arthur said, looking around and drumming his fingertips together. “To break into that party.”

He pointed at the other wedding reception beside this one, which seemed to have started later than Gilbert and Elizaveta’s.

Alfred got to his feet. “We’re running out of booze anyway. I’ll do it!”

“Naughty boy,” Arthur smirked and followed him.

This one had a rather outlandish theme compared to Gilbert and Elizaveta’s. It was a crossroad of the East and the West, a cordial mix of Chinese ornaments and Russian music.

Everyone was busy chatting at the tables or dancing in the center of the cheerful crowd, making it effortless for Alfred to step over the rope without anyone noticing.

“I dare you to crash it with me,” Alfred said with a dangerous glint in his eyes.  

Arthur reciprocated the smile and took the dare. “Very well.”

The reception was by far one of the most crowded they had ever been to and most of the guests were kin to the newlyweds – half of them were Asians while the other half were mostly Eastern Europeans.

Little did Arthur know, Alfred’s momentary silence already stood for a bucket of criticisms. The younger man pointed at one of the grooms, the Russian one. “That woolen scarf for the seaside, really?”

Arthur chuckled. “When did you start having a fashion sense?” He wrapped his fingers around Alfred’s raised arm. “We’re not here to catch attention so put your chubby finger down.”

The older blond kept his eye on the table of the newlyweds, on the Asian groom, specifically. There was something familiar about him; the Brit might have seen him before, or he might have known someone who looked like him. Arthur took an invitation from one of the empty tables and found the name of the grooms: Ivan Braginsky and Wang Yao.

That’s it – the other groom is Dr. Honda’s stepbrother. Arthur remembered Kiku telling him about his stepbrothers, that they didn’t get along very well since childhood, especially Yao.

While Arthur was preoccupied playing Sherlock Holmes, Alfred had his own observations about the party. He tried not to pay attention to the Russian groom; just by the looks of it, Alfred knew that he was the kind of person he wouldn’t bother befriending. But if there’s one thing Alfred would admit as admirable, it would be the astounding quantity of vodka. There was so much vodka in such a small party they could drain all the sea water in that beach and replace it with vodka, and it would still overflow like a tsunami.

“Hey, Al.”

“Alfred.”

Arthur yanked the sleeve of his shirt to snap him out of his daydream.

“Yeah?”

“I dare you to steal some drinks.”

And so Alfred did.

Stealthy and suave, he slinked to the bar counter and went back to his companion with two big glasses of clear Russian liquor. They shared a toast with the guests at the nearest table and the music turned upbeat, ending the series of slow dances. The guests hurriedly left the table for the dance floor.

Alfred sipped his drink and leant closer to Arthur, his lips a few centimeters from Arthur’s ear. “I dare you to dance with me.”

The center was swarming with more people and no one would easily spot their intrusion so they joined the wild crowd. Music blaring and drinks spilling on their hands, they danced together and banged their heads like there was no tomorrow until they were red and soaking with sweat. When they felt like the world was spinning around them, they agreed to make their leave.

“Artie, before we leave,” Alfred pushed his glasses against the bridge of his slippery nose. “I want to bring justice and freedom into this party.”

“What are you talking about?” Arthur was sure as hell who was more stoned between the two of them.

“It’s unfair to have so much vodka at one party,” Alfred pressed his pointed finger against Arthur’s lips before the Brit could say something else. “Watch.”

Behind them stood the vodka skyscraper where Alfred had devoted much of his attention since they meddled into the party. The American tilted against the stacks of bottles and forced them away until they crumbled into the ground like ruins of an earthquake. Broken glass and spilled liquid slithered through the sand. 

The party halted to a full stop. The music hushed, as did the people. Alfred and Arthur both felt a hundred pairs of petrified eyes directed at them.

“Run!”

Alfred snatched Arthur’s hand and together they ran with their hearts racing along. Their feet seemed to have a mind of their own, taking them somewhere far from the wreckage, somewhere far from the ridiculous confrontation.  

They stumbled to the ground, Arthur landing flat against Alfred’s chest.

The Brit gave it a heavy pound with the palm of his hand; green eyes wide and glossy. “You crazy boy!”

Alfred never laughed so hard his entire life. 

☆

“I’m still wondering how you survived all these years without having to cook for yourself.”

Two days after that eventful afternoon and they were back to business.

The thought crossed Alfred’s mind as he was reminded that he’d never seen his housemate touch the stove except when making tea or coffee, or when lighting cigarettes; but then again he didn’t eat much, or at least he didn’t see Arthur eat as often as he did.

Alfred and Arthur resumed to their morning tasks at the kitchen. The Brit sat by the counter, Doctor Martens crossed on the marble top, skillfully twirling a knife with his index finger like a lead character in one of those assassin films while waiting for the coffee to brew. The American stood by the stove with a spatula in one hand, guarding the chicken nuggets until they were golden brown. He had an hour before leaving for work and Arthur was a boss of his own time so he made the Brit sit by the counter and wait for breakfast.

Arthur smirked and waved the knife. “Sorcery.”

“Ah, I should’ve known,” Alfred sniggered and set the plate of dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets on the counter. 

Yesterday was a Monday and Alfred skipped work – getting up from the couch felt like balancing a sixteen-wheeler truck on his head. Arthur also didn’t have the strength to leave the house, but from the dark circles around his eyes, Alfred could tell he’d been working overnight in front of his computer. They looked like shit – those were four words plucked from Arthur’s vocabulary garden.

But today they looked a lot better. Taking turns with the bathroom did the trick. Fortunately, they didn’t feel squeamish at the same time, otherwise they had to share their privacy: one of them hugging the toilet seat and the other one the sink.

They figured it was the revenge of vodka but considering the barrel of laughs that they had, they absolutely found no reason to be sorry. Arthur had extra fun recounting Alfred’s superglue incident and reenacting his ‘justice and freedom’ lines. The American denied them to death but Arthur had more than enough to prove them all.

“My mum never let me in the kitchen again after I nearly set our apartment to ashes,” the Brit laughed to himself.

“C’mon it couldn’t be that bad!”

“But that’s the truth!”

Alfred needed to turn around to check whether Arthur was humoring him or not. He resumed setting the plates and the cutlery on the counter.  

“Besides, I always had someone to cook for me,” Arthur said. “Right now I have a minion – that’s you – and when I’m alone, there are always a number of good restaurants to choose from. Back at home, we have someone who can do the cooking if Mum doesn’t feel like preparing dishes and during university days, I had Fran–”

He bit his lip.

Alfred thought he lost sight of the knife cutting deeply through Arthur’s skin, but there was no blood, only white knuckles wrapped around the knife. Arthur’s face was a smooth, emotionless mask.

“Who?”

From the living room, the phone rang and shattered the eerie silence.

“Must be Kiku.” Arthur uncrossed his ankles and fled to the living room.

End of discussion.

☆

“You never missed our appointments before,” Dr. Honda said. “Not without giving me a notice.”

Arthur sighed and shifted in his seat. “B-blame _him_! Remember when I told you that he was my neighbor?”

He didn’t wait for Dr. Honda’s nod to go on. “Days after that, he knocked on my door and asked if he could stay in my place for a while. I took him in and now he’s my _flatmate_.”

A frown formed in Dr. Honda’s thin lips. “Have you been drinking often these past few days?”

Arthur groaned and collapsed on the couch, face down on the plush mint bunny. He knew he had bad drinking issues but he was unconditionally certain that they had nothing to do with this.

“I. Am. Not. Out. Of. My. Mind,” Arthur dissected the words through gritted teeth and bolted upright to face the doctor again. “ _He_ is out of my mind! He’s out in our world, Kiku. The. Real. World. People can see him, _our_ friends can see him, they can touch him. They talk to him, we party together. He’s friends with my friends, I’m telling you!”

There was not a slight hint of induced reaction in Dr. Honda’s face. Arthur’s shoulders slumped with disappointment.

“If you don’t believe me, fine,” Arthur said. “But don’t call Mum until tomorrow.”

The Brit felt the pang of revived betrayal from their last meeting, but he had a plan to sort this dilemma once and for all.

“Let’s have lunch together. Bring Heracles with you.”


	6. Dice with demons

Alfred used to tell himself that he’d give anything to see his British housemate swapping his standard punk guise for something that would make him look more… human, just for the heck of it. And, the prophetic day had come, he decided that he would rather be damned than admit the fact that he was having a hard time taking his eyes off him.

Today, Arthur Kirkland looked… different. Unrecognizable. 

The American wrestled with his brain once in a while, commanding his eyes to sail somewhere else. He could only imagine the horror if those forest greens caught his wandering, pretending glance.

He knew it was going to be special when the Brit asked him last night to come with him to a lunch meeting the next day (it was Alfred’s day off and he had nothing else to do). It would be at some fancy restaurant downtown and he was told to be in his classic black coat and tie, one of those few ensembles he had for formal occasions. But he didn’t expect himself gawking and internally choking when Arthur stepped out of his bedroom in a tailored navy blue suit and leather dress shoes with his ever-messy blond hair slicked back. No earrings, not a trace of punk. Just all posh and tidy-looking; a polar opposite Arthur Kirkland. He could’ve been the Arthur Kirkland of a parallel universe.

Alfred didn’t know how long he’d been holding his breath. Leaning forward an inch or two and his face would touch Arthur’s. They never shared such little space before, after all.

The oblivious Brit paid closer attention to the boy’s necktie, fixing it and reprimanding him about tying it improperly. He already told Alfred about it when he did it for him at Gilbert and Elizaveta’s but it turned out that the boy needed more guidance. Who would’ve thought that the punk knew proper grooming and etiquette better than he did?

“It’s not a date, alright? We’re just having lunch with a friend,” Arthur cleared his throat. “He wants to make sure that I’m not living with someone crazier than I am.”

His lips curved into what Alfred deemed as a nervous smile.

The boy knew well that it was a sensitive issue to discuss and he didn’t attempt to pry when Arthur told him that he was seeing a therapist. He didn’t miss the spark of discomfort in his eyes upon disclosing the topic, but somehow, Alfred felt a surge of consolation being entrusted with such a strict personal matter.

“I thought he’s your therapist?” Alfred asked, silently praying he would choose unoffending words all throughout the day.

Arthur’s fingers left Alfred’s chest; the tie was done. His piercing eyes collided with Alfred’s avoidant ones.

“Can’t he be both?”

☆

Kiku couldn’t believe his own eyes.

That young man sitting opposite Arthur was the walking, talking, laughing, breathing version of Arthur’s portraits – Alfred Foster Jones himself!

Arthur and his new housemate arrived five minutes after him and Heracles and they spent their first half hour with pleasantries while enjoying the food. The four of them appeared to be exceptionally comfortable together, interacting so casually, that people around them might have thought they were very close friends recently reunited. 

Kiku already established to Alfred that he and Arthur were very good friends from the Brit’s first days in the US. From that leeway, he was also able to ask Arthur how he’d been doing and what he’d been up to without giving away suspicion. Kiku introduced Heracles to Alfred (as it was needless for Arthur having met him a few times already) and let his Greek boyfriend talk about his latest archeological trip in the Middle East. Like a flowing river, their talk kept pace and Kiku always caught his gaze returning to their new acquaintance.

The trifling conversational lapse gave him the chance to ask Alfred more about himself as he remembered the boy hadn’t spoken much when the topic switched from that first night he and Arthur met (Kiku couldn’t thank him enough for what he had done for Arthur).

“So, Alfred,” Kiku said. “Tell us more about yourself. What do you do?”

The American flashed his ‘aw shucks’ smile and forked his mango crêpe. “Well… right now, I’m working at a coffee shop just two blocks away. Sometimes, I play with a band but that’s totally irregular. Though if I were given the chance I’d want to focus on my music.”

“Is that so?” Kiku asked, glancing at Arthur. “How long have you been playing music?”

“I’ve been playing all my life,” Alfred said. “Back in my first foster home, I was taught how to play the piano before I could even read and write.”

“How impressive,” Heracles smiled and spoke with his casual somnolent voice. “What other instruments do you play?”

“I also play drums, the flute, the violin but I prefer the guitar.”  

“Really? I always wanted to play those instruments,” Kiku said. “Any favorite bands?”

“Gee, that’s a lot,” Alfred said. “But My Chemical Romance and Fall Out Boy will always be my childhood heroes.”

Kiku’s dark eyes widened. “Cool! I like them too,” he remarked. “It’s such a shame that MCR had to break up. I read the news revoking the breakup but it turned out that it was an April Fool’s prank.”

“Yeah,” Alfred frowned and sunk back to his seat.                                           

“How many songs do you have in your iPod?”

Alfred gave that one a thought. “Hmm, I don’t know. Around 3000, approximately. I try to listen to all the genres I discover.”

 _Overload, overload. Information overload._ Kiku’s brain was on red alert.

“May I have a moment with Arthur?” Kiku tapped Arthur’s arm. “Alone?”

Startled and wordless, the two other men blinked and nodded.

“Uh, yeah.”

“Sure.”

Alfred’s heart sank. Did he say something wrong? Or was it the moment to deliberate whether he was qualified to be Arthur’s housemate? Had Kiku always been so scrupulous when it came to who lived with his friend?

“Hey, Alfred,” Heracles said while Arthur and Kiku excused themselves and marched towards the door. “Do you like cats?”

“Y-yeah! I’m a lover of both cats and dogs, actually…”

The stinging autumn air welcomed Arthur and Kiku as they joined the pedestrians in the bustling streets. They strode until they were out of Alfred’s and Heracles’ sight, not turning back. Kiku had been babbling Japanese since they made their exit.

“Just-wh- how- j-just how did that happen?!” Kiku said. He flung his arms in the air as if it would give him the answers.

“I don’t know!” Arthur huffed, a cloud of anxious mist escaping his mouth. “I-I don’t know! I told you! That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you all along!”

“But- how- but he can’t just come out of nowhere!”

“But that’s what happened! One morning I just woke up next to him, _in_ _his bed,_ and then I found out that his apartment unit was next to mine! I’ve never even seen him in the apartment complex before, I swear. But my friends claim to know him longer than they know me!”

Kiku began walking in circles, a hand pressed against his temple. “People can’t just step out of portraits! There has to be some scientific explanation behind all this- this occurrence!”

“I know! But what can we do? Surrender him to the Department of Science and Technology and have him dissected?” Arthur asked, gesturing Kiku to lower his voice. The passersby had been turning heads in their direction. “There must be some kind of a fairy godmother granting wishes to lonely and messed up people, I don’t know!”

“This is wrong.” Kiku shook his head. “Arthur, you have to report this to the police. You could be living with a criminal on the run, for all you know.”

Arthur’s jaw dropped. “What?! No! He can’t be worse than me!”

Kiku opened his mouth to say something but Arthur secured his friend’s shoulders under his hands. “Look, I know this is insane. But please, Kiku, trust me with this. ”

Arthur glanced through the glass windows of the restaurant and saw Alfred talking to Heracles with such an animated smile and gestures. Then he returned his glance back to his friend, straight into his unfathomable dark brown eyes.

“Please don’t ruin this for me.”

The way his friend regarded him rendered Kiku speechless. He had always been worried about Arthur, regardless of his job – he was the little brother that he never had – and he wanted him to be out of harm’s way. But at the same time, Kiku wanted him to be happy and that was what Kiku had seen.

There was something out of the ordinary as he caught glimpses of his friend laughing at Alfred’s dorky jokes, or simply listening to Alfred talk or the way he smiled or his eyes light up when he looked at the boy – and that was something he’d never seen for the past two years that he’d known Arthur. He was bursting with contagious happiness and that was an improvement that no medication or therapy could ever provide.

☆

“You know, even if you dress up as a vampire, they won’t be able to tell the difference.”

Just as how the Polyjuice Potion wears out, Arthur morphed back to his punk self for Halloween. Alfred did a quick Arthur Kirkland inventory while they journeyed to Lovino and Feliciano’s place. One too many silver earrings, another piercing on the right bushy eyebrow and at the edge of his bottom lip, overlapping bracelets and a skull ring, tattered shirt under a scarf and a leather jacket, and skin-tight jeans with metal chains and haphazardly tied boots. 

“Fuck you,” Arthur gave him a blow in the gut and lit his third cigarette for the night.

Arthur should’ve been home having a horror films marathon. He had a good list of films fresh from the pirate oven but after finishing _The Woman in Black_ , his housemate nagged him to go out. Taking pity on the boy who’d been white as sheet, he decided to go out with Alfred and prove to the world that they weren’t hermits – it was a Friday night anyway.

They received a call the night before from Feliciano, inviting them to their annual Halloween party at their place, the pizzeria-by-day/discotheque-by-night, which was usually an exclusive party for close friends.

“ _¡Hola, amigos!_ ” Antonio greeted them as they stepped into the front door, dressed as a vicious hunter and holding a half-empty pilsner glass. “So glad you came! Come in, come in!”

Alfred and Arthur exchanged looks before taking a step inside the haunted nightclub.

“Told you the Batman and Robin costume was a good idea,” Alfred whispered.

Arthur’s face went red as Antonio’s tomatoes and he shoved Alfred to go inside.

Peculiar creatures with familiar faces dominated the party. There was Antonio the hunter, accompanied by an angry Italian granny. Alfred and Arthur deemed it best to avoid their direction as they had a strong feeling that the Italian granny would fire his rifle at any moment. The newlyweds were nowhere to be found; the gladiator, Ludwig, informed them that the couple was spending their honeymoon period at the Adriatic shores. Ludwig summoned Feliciano, who donned a dilapidated sort of tunic that made him look like an ancient slave, and instructed him to serve the newly-arrived guests some drinks. They were soon joined by the ghost pirates Mathias, Lukas, Berwald and Tino with whom they shared a few glasses.

In between those cheerful greetings and bantering with his friends, Arthur wondered if this was the kind of fun that he missed for the last two years while he kept himself as a recluse. He had to admit – he was glad that he came this year and he attended because… just because. He roamed around with Alfred, scouting for the midnight quirks exhibited by the drunken creatures. It was always a good source of entertainment at a party. Though there was not much to explore; some of the areas were off limits including the staircase that lead to the two residential floors upstairs: one for Antonio and Lovino and the other for Ludwig and Feliciano.

The partygoers gathered around Mathias, cheering as he attempted to do some kind of upside-down beer keg world record.

Inside the bathroom a number of people cramped up together like sardines, having a mini pool party in the bathtub. One of the ladies, the first one to get in the tub before everyone else did, was throwing a fit about the others hopping in her supposed private one-person bathtub party uninvited. Everything was as crazy as some lame high school party. Alfred and Arthur had a few drinks and smokes with the sober lot; they figured it was a little too soon for another tragic hang over. But they lost each other in the midst of the party as more people came in; it was a total riot.

Arthur ended up smoking at the patio, taking a break from the human-polluted party. He watched the star-dusted sky and waited for a shooting star to cross his line of sight – someone in the outer space might have been sending a signal about the end of the world, who knew?

He extinguished his last stick and fished inside his pocket to light another one but a booming voice disrupted his peace.

“Bored already?”

Arthur flinched. Slightly embarrassed, he plucked a stray spider toy from the cotton web above his head and hurled it at Alfred. “For fuck’s sake, Alfred. Stop sprouting out of nowhere like a mushroom!”

Alfred giggled, proud of his little Halloween trick. “C’mon, follow me.”

The spectacled boy wrapped his fingers around the Brit’s wrist and led him back to the party, passing through the raving crowd. Arthur realized Alfred was taking him down to the basement.

“You shoot hoops?” Alfred asked, securing the door behind him and turning the dusky lights on.

The basement was actually an indoor basketball court and Alfred knew the place because Gilbert and Ludwig took him there once to have a game.

Arthur said nothing as he studied the space.

“Oh, right. You only do embroidery,” Alfred said, recalling the sight of Arthur doing needlework in the living room (the punk never failed to take him by surprise). Making all those intricately embellished pillow cases must be some damn hard work.

Flustered, Arthur finally responded. “What are you trying to say? That I don’t know sports?” He looked him in the eye. “This is a high school star football player you’re talking to.”

Alfred raised his eyebrows. He never heard him speak so confidently of himself before. Liquor must have made its way into Arthur’s veins already.

“And now you’re retired and you just do embroidery.”

“Try me.”

And their game began. Alfred picked the ball from the wood tiled-floor and started dribbling, dribbling until he lunged and aimed at the ring. A smooth three-point shot. Then it was Arthur’s turn – he ran after the ball, made a figure eight with it between his legs and dunked. The younger blond smirked at his playmate’s flawless move, more motivated this time now that the challenge issued. He aimed for his second shot but unfortunately missed a few centimeters shy from the ring.

Alfred kicked his shoes off and pulled his socks away.

“What are you doing?”

“Stripping. What else?”

Oh boy. There goes the twist.

Arthur looked around, taking in his surroundings as if his awareness had just come back to him after a long vacation. Most of the bulbs were dim with only the faint glow outside the little glass windows lighting up the basement. It was gloomy, though they could still see clearly. He figured it was fair enough – Arthur wasn’t exactly comfortable with the idea of exposing his skin. Not at all.

The game needed a little heating up, Alfred insisted, and so they played one-on-one. Fast-paced and more intense, they quickly found themselves panting and sweating. Dribbling and running and guarding, stealing the ball from each other. Shot. Missed. Dribbled again, chased after the ball for the ring. Hearts pounding, muscles flexing. Blocking, arms stretched like a wall. They came so close to each other. So close until they were nose to nose, looking into each other’s fiery eyes. Arthur was the first one to break away, feeling an unsettling sensation building in his stomach. Were those what they call butterflies? Ridiculous.

The game went on and so did the consequence. They stripped and tossed their clothes in a corner. First to go were the jackets, scarves and shirts and Alfred had no problem with that. He stripped like it was his sole purpose in life while Arthur so reluctantly took his clothes off but he couldn’t make himself go against their rule.

Both of them stripped after missing their shot until they only had underwear their left. And for the last time (much to Alfred’s delight), Arthur missed the ring. The Brit had to take off his last piece of clothing and admit humiliation to the cocky American. But just as he placed his shaking fingers on the waistband, they heard footsteps approaching the door, with the sound of Lovino’s complaining.

Alfred and Arthur scrambled to their feet and dashed to hide in the darkest corner of the room before the door slammed open, revealing the hunter and angry Granny.

“That beer sucker never took his hands off my brother after Gil and Eliza got married!” Lovino said. His Italian accent was heavy with spirits.

Antonio laughed and skidded against the wall. “Oh, is someone jealous?”

He gazed lovingly at his Italian through half-lidded eyes and brushed the stray brunet strands away from Lovino’s clouded sight.

Lovino batted his eyelashes and said, _“Baciami, tonto.”_  

Antonio’s face lit up brighter than the jack-o-lanterns outside and all at once, he enveloped Lovino’s lips against his own.

Fortunately, the rays of Antonio’s sunny face didn’t reach the darkest corner of the basement or else their moment could’ve been ruined upon discovering Alfred and Arthur who watched them kiss like they were a couple from a box-office romantic movie. The two blonds didn’t dare blink – where the hell was the popcorn? – but they did their best to hold their breath and not burst into laughter. Slowly but surely, they crawled to reach their clothes and put them on.

While Antonio and Lovino were too occupied with their suggestive preparations, Alfred and Arthur crawled out the door and went back to the party. Once declared that it was a mission accomplished, they giggled together like little boys.

“You’re not half bad yourself,” Alfred rubbed his shoulder against Arthur’s. “Though I think you’re more awesome with embroidery.”

For the umpteenth time that night Arthur’s face was red with alcohol and embarrassment. “Thank you,” he said. “You should give it a try.”

They agreed that they already had their fun and it was time to go home. Arthur checked his wristwatch; it was three in the morning. They could’ve bid their friends goodbye but no one was sober enough to understand what ‘going home’ meant. A cold gust of air embraced them even before stepping out; the progressively freezing autumn weather had arrived.

“Er, Al?”

“Yeah?”

“I forgot my jacket.”

Alfred blinked in realization. “W-we’re not going back, are we?” He asked. “I mean, I’m not the type who suddenly barges in a couple’s sexy time.”

A soft tinge of pink sprinkled across his face as he tried not to picture Antonio and Lovino doing it.

They had to walk a long way back and he couldn’t let Arthur walk in that bitter-cold weather with his threadbare shirt.

“Here,” Alfred removed his own jacket and slipped it over Arthur’s shoulders.

The Brit tried to shrug it away. “But you need it too.”

Alfred winked and wrapped an arm around Arthur. “Don’t worry, heroes don’t freeze to death.”

And they walked out the door, teasing each other about their ball game to distract and keep themselves warm on their way home.

☆

But teasing had never been this extreme, at least not for Alfred. They teased each other from the party all the way back to the apartment until the teasing increasingly turned into something else. Alfred couldn’t remember how it began but somewhere between the snarky bantering and coquettish innuendos, it happened.

Maybe the liquor was working its magic.

Alfred inhaled a lungful of air before his lips returned devouring Arthur’s, pinning him against his bedroom door. He was needy and impatient. He was a selfish, ravenous beast wanting to fill his senses with Arthur’s scent and taste, a hypnotic blend of smoke, martini and honeysuckle. Reason was blurred. Nothingmade sense anymore. And Arthur played along, welcoming Alfred’s advances and responding openly to his initiatives. They took turns with moves that intensified until they spiraled into this dirty little game.

While their lips interlocked into a venomous kiss, Arthur’s hands left fervent trails underneath Alfred’s shirt, tracing his soft and smooth skin upward from the small of his back. They found their way to Alfred’s stomach and crawled up, coaxing each nipple. Alfred cringed as the warm hands explored inside his pants, scooping his ass; his breath hitched upon feeling the bulge between his legs grow hard. Arthur broke away from their kiss to rip Alfred’s shirt above his head. Time to flip things around; Arthur seized the upper hand.

There, in the crude darkness of Arthur’s room, they leisurely undressed each other as if following a sacred ritual. Arthur teased the zipper of Alfred’s pants, reaching and groping his hard length that made Alfred let out a soft moan. The younger blond returned the favor, unzipped Arthur and tugged him out, his hand wrapping around the throbbing cock that he rubbed against his own.

Arthur hastily kicked his pants off, pulled away from Alfred and jumped on the bed. Taking it as an encouragement, Alfred chased after the Brit and they laughed as Alfred tumbled on top of him. He showered Arthur with sloppy, intoxicated kisses, trailing the outline of his jaw, to his chin, the crook of his neck and down to his chest and stomach. Arthur received them with gentle sighs and laughter, burying his fists through Alfred’s tousled locks.

The faint light flitting through the blinds was all that illuminated the bedroom, like the shady basketball court. Arthur felt some of his insecurity and anxiety melt away because if it was dark, Alfred wouldn’t have a clear view of his shameful body and he liked that better.

Robbed of breath from kisses and unreserved arousal, Alfred paused and rolled to his side next to Arthur. It was his first time to step inside Arthur’s room, (aside from the abandoned alley, that was another restricted space) and the first thing that caught his eye made him chuckle with amusement. Sitting against the headboard between him and Arthur was a big brown teddy bear with a red bow tie, the sole witness to their overnight business.

“You sleep with a teddy bear?” Alfred snatched the teddy bear and examined it. He always knew Arthur has an inner posh English school boy. “God, you’re such a lonely person.”

“Humor me, then.”

Arthur got on all fours, placing his hands beside Alfred’s shoulders. He dove close to Alfred and skillfully removed the younger man’s glasses with his teeth, placing them on the nightstand.

“I knew you’re the naughtier one between you and me,” Alfred ran his fingers across Arthur’s sweat-slick chest, trying to familiarize with the smoothness that belonged only to him. They strayed in small, tentative circles and fancied the nipple ring on the left, tweaking it until they rediscovered the inked gothic clock on Arthur’s stomach that Alfred so admired.

Anxiety lumped up in Arthur’s throat, ill at ease that Alfred was studying him so he weighed him down and buried his face on his neck, giving it a bite.

Underneath him, Alfred moaned and shivered in weak protest. He exhaled sharply, about to say something but Arthur shut him up with another kiss and he didn’t resist. Though it wasn’t his first time, Alfred didn’t venture to take the lead; he chose to relax and present himself to Arthur in complete surrender.

But the younger man aggressively cupped Arthur’s face with his two hands, bringing him closer to his lips and invading his mouth with a forceful tongue. He couldn’t get enough of Arthur’s taste and he wanted it so much he couldn’t stop. Arthur kissed him back harder, fumbling on the nightstand for the bottle of lube. Alfred’s touch wandered from Arthur’s face down to the slick erection that he fondled and teased. Arthur grinned into the kiss and moved his lips to Alfred’s neck, giving it a ticklish slurp. Alfred moaned and arched his upper body, throwing his head back to the pillows, lost in ~~a~~ trance-like ecstasy.

He watched Arthur spread the liquid in his hands but sensed that they forgot something.

“Arthur, aren’t we- ah!” Alfred gasped as the cold sensation assaulted his opening. “A-aren’t we a little unsafe?”

Arthur paused and chuckled. His laughter was music to Alfred’s ears.

“Silly yank.” He leaned his forehead against Alfred’s and pecked him tenderly on the lips. “There’s no need for that rubbish.”

Was Arthur normally that impulsive and risky or was it because he was just drunk? But whatever it was, Alfred didn’t mind, really. On the bright side, he finally got a taste of the bed after weeks of deprivation and was getting laid. He couldn’t really ask for more.

Arthur continued stroking his opening, the second finger inserted as his lips left tingling kisses on Alfred’s chest and making the other grip his hair with the mounting pleasure. Alfred tried to contain the shaking in his legs, hemming them around Arthur whose lips were now following the breaths of golden hair down his navel.

Alfred’s abdomen muscles contracted when Arthur went a little lower. The Brit stuck out his pierced tongue and licked the younger man’s cock, green eyes glinting with naught, aimed at Alfred.

The boy released a defeated whimper as the tongue left his groin.  

“No, you’re not getting that tonight.” Arthur smiled and petted Alfred’s length now dripping with precum.

Arthur carried on with the postponed task; impatiently stretching Alfred’s opening more quickly this time. He got a little rough – he knew it from Alfred’s amplified moaning but he ignored it and admired the boy’s suppressed expression that he was hiding his arm.

He stopped when he figured Alfred was ready and rested his palms on the boy’s chest, feeling his rapid heartbeat.

“We’re ready for takeoff.”

☆

Alfred woke up to the cacophonous silence of the room. He tried figuring out what time of day it was but the gray weather outside proved stingy. His head pounded a bit but it wasn’t a tenfold of the Revenge of Vodka. A grin stretched across his face as last night’s memories flooded his hung over brain.

He closed his eyes, reliving the moments, feeling Arthur’s touches ghosting against every inch of his skin.  Hell, Arthur sure knew how to touch the right places, where it felt good for Alfred. His senses played a spontaneous flashback: the touch of their slick skin, the sound of their skittish laughter, Arthur’s honeysuckle-and-smoke taste in his mouth and those toxic green eyes smoldering under the pale moonlight.

They were intoxicated but it was consensual, right? On Alfred’s part there were no regrets with the way he surrendered himself to Arthur, letting the Brit straddle him and leave him moaning and screaming Arthur’s name. He never thought someone could make him feel so ecstatic like all his past sexual experiences had been nothing but lies.

Arthur was a little rough on him all throughout, but the roughness sent Alfred into a more excitable frenzy. After some time they stopped – weary but content – and Arthur lay beside him, pulling the covers for the both of them. Alfred remembered wrapping his arms around Arthur, his face pressed against the crook of his neck, their legs entangled as they drifted away.

Alfred’s eyes fluttered back to the present and he realized his face was red. How would he face Arthur? What should he tell him? Should he thank him for last night? ‘Hey, Arthur. Last night was pretty fun. That was the best sex I’ve had in my life, you win all the awards for that. I think we should do it again.’ His head swirled at that thought and he actually thought he was going to puke – of course he didn’t have the guts for that! 

He took five deep breaths and turned to face the music but found the other side of the bed empty. 


	7. Down the rabbit hole

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello. It me.

Arthur’s palms were numb and clammy against the steering wheel as he drove aimlessly, chasing the endless yellow line, tires careening against wet asphalt. A flare of blazing colors surrounded him; the balding trees towered over both sides of the deserted road with branches resembling an old witch’s crooked fingers.

_Slow down._

He tried holding sway over his dissociated mind with the sullen swinging of the windscreen wiper. He couldn’t recall leaving the city center for this misty, unfamiliar forest road. Where was he?

He shouldn’t be there in the first place. He should be at home, preparing for work, but impulse took the upper hand with the déjà vu of finding Alfred sleeping _next to him_ and closer than they’d ever been. Everything swept through like a gust of wind, details of the chain of events blurred into a haze; his headache was overcame by his heartbeat thrumming to the speed of his car. The next thing he knew he was behind the steering wheel, drenched with sweat, shaking and trying to remember how to breathe.

Last night was a terrible mistake. Humiliation crept up his throat, choking him with previous night’s flashbacks that prompted how he candidly exposed himself to Alfred. Would there come a time when he’d stop selling himself short to everyone? Sleeping with strangers had been a habit to ease his sexual frustration… but unlike those other men he slept with before, Alfred wasn’t a complete stranger.

Arthur cringed at the thought and stamped on the gas pedal, racing against _slow down_.

It was an inevitable truth that they got to know each other better day by day, which he found disturbing. If he let Alfred really get to know him, Alfred would find him undesirable. He would leave him eventually, just like everyone else did. How many times did he have to fuck up before he could learn?

He should have known better. To begin with, Alfred was only staying with him for a short time. He’d be gone after paying all his dues, as he promised the day he moved in with him. There was nothing to expect from Alfred – no strings attached. Trust was a thief in the night that robbed people of happiness, leaving them with shards of disappointment and misery. Countless times it had manifest as people took advantage of poor, emotionally unstable Arthur Kirkland and the vicious cycle was threatening to begin anew. He had to be on guard to prevent it from happening. He needed to contain himself – his feelings – and last night was a proof that he couldn’t control himself. But he had to otherwise everything would go completely wrong. Nothing, _nothing,_ ever went his way. No matter how many times he weighed things, everything ended up a mess.

But not this time.

Keeping his mind on the road was as conflicting as wrapping his head around the recent turn of events. Outside the windows, trees melded into a rich, chocolate blur; an oak tree of a hundred years appearing at the end of the road. He was lost deep in the forests of his own troubled thoughts, the looming danger failed to register into his senses as the car zoomed fast and straight ahead.

_Turn right._

His mind alerted loud and clear but his hands were anesthetized around the steering wheel.

_Turn right._

Forty, thirty, twenty meters. Still nothing.

_Turn right!_

His reflexes came around and took over not until the car barely missed the impact, making it swerve violently round and round and round until it came to a full stop. A deafening silence followed the screeching of tires. Blood rushed all over his rattled body without a drop leaking out of his skin, trembling hands collapsing to his sides. His forehead slumped against the steering wheel while he released an audible breath, consistently panting as he talked himself to calm down. 

Closing his eyes, his mind raced through his interrupted thoughts. What was the point of maneuvering his feelings? Alfred already tore down his defenses before he had the chance to build them.

Arthur sank back to his seat, looking over his shoulder to examine the oak tree that swept over his vision like how Alfred swept over his life, catching him off-guard. It was up to Arthur whether to save himself or crash and burn to pieces. And he already made the choice – he knew what would happen and how it would end but he would proceed.

_One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight…_

He counted slowly while concentrating on his breathing, folding and unfolding his hands. He waited for his heart to slow down back to its average beating, but it pulsated so revoltingly inside his chest that it hurt. 

He didn’t mind the pain. After all, pain was a sign of life.

_To hell with it._

☆

The door burst open precisely an hour and a half after Alfred rolled out of bed (not that he was counting, of course). 

Before a word of salutation was uttered, a soaking, disconcerted Arthur tossed his car keys to the coffee table and stormed to the bedroom. Why did he look so unsettled? Did something happen on his way home? And why was he sopping wet? Did he drive away to play in the rain?

Left dawdling through his unanswered questions, Alfred sighed faintly. He surveyed the living room. There was nothing else to do; all the morning chores were completed. He even fixed Arthur’s bedroom although it wasn’t part of the routine. This was the worst kind of silence – this awkward, haunting silence that kept one’s thoughts streaming inconclusive – and he wasn’t willing to endure it.

He trod to the couch and flicked through his phone, reviewing the unpopulated inbox. He had a staring contest with the screen, daring it to flash new messages from acquaintances at work, longing for the beep to tear the unpleasant stillness. But it was the weekend, the two days when it was law to think about everything except work and people associated with it.  The one to rip the silence was the creaking bedroom door as Arthur hastily transferred to his studio, snubbing Alfred’s presence.

The weekend was a providential time to give attention to unfinished works otherwise he’d say goodbye to pending paychecks, Arthur figured. He turned on the computer to check his e-mails before grappling his pen tablet, completely distracting himself from the morning’s unspeakable episode. He did a fine job sidetracking that he also ignored Alfred, although it wasn’t his intention.

Of course the boy was home; he only worked for the coffee shop during weekdays and it was rare that he needed to go out for the weekend. Arthur had yet to figure out how to deal with him, but it was made unnecessary by the hesitant knocking outside the door.

Arthur spun his swivel chair in reflex.

“Good morning,” Alfred peeped in, crossing the threshold at a snail’s pace with a tall mug of mystery drink. He appeared like a shy little boy taking all precautions to reach the other side without spilling it.

Awkward pause.

Arthur blinked and looked up to him with quiet alertness, then down the drink swarming with pastel marshmallows. “How should I know this doesn’t have poison?”

Alfred chuckled and took a tiny, teasing sip to prove his clear intentions. “If you feel like dying after drinking this, don’t forget to remember me.”

Arthur’s lips broke into a scanty smile as he accepted the offering. Not bad, he reckoned. But to be honest, it was rather scrumptious. The customary caffeine would have to wait for another day as it was the last thing he wanted that morning. A creamy, comforting dose of hot chocolate was just what he needed to ease his anxiety.

“So, uh, you’re staying ‘round for the weekend?” Alfred asked, dragging a folding chair to sit beside the computer desk.

Arthur nodded at the screen.

“Me too.”

Another awkward pause.

Even more awkward pause.

“Do you have to finish some work?”

Not letting his eyes stray from the computer, Arthur slumped to his seat.

“Unfortunately, yes,” he sighed. “But I need a little exercise to keep it going. Oh, I don’t know.”

“You can paint me.”

If this was some notice-me-Arthur-I’m-right-beside-you game, Alfred ransacked the prize. He was impossible to ignore at this point. To add fuel to the fire, he said, “I did nude modeling for a living.”

Good thing he wasn’t sipping his hot chocolate, or else he could have spit on Alfred’s face because what he actually heard was, _Draw me like one of your French girls._

“Stop pushing your luck, Narcissus!”

“What? You don’t believe me?” Alfred curled his fingers around the hem of his shirt, ready to take it off.

“That’s not – ugh – FINE!” Arthur heaved, interrupting Alfred’s exhibition. His palms were pressed against his face before he realized that he didn’t want to hear about it, much less _see_ it, when last night’s drunken business was left unresolved. Too soon, it was too soon. “J-just keep your clothes on.”

Alfred let out a low, silly _hooray_ while Arthur positioned him for the task. “You can ask me anytime if you need a muse. Don’t be shy.”

Arthur felt his eyeballs roll back inside his skull. Artist problem #54398: annoying requests. If he would keep on painting for free, he might as well build a museum for his entire Unsold Collection. He could probably earn more money with that.

“If my clients refuse –”

“I’ll take it.”

“What?”

“I’ll take it, just paint me.”

“I’m not doing this for free, just so you know.”

“I know. You set the price, just paint me. Please?”

Someone overdosed his persistence pills.

Just thinking about the idea seemed rather strange having Alfred’s painting displayed anywhere around the apartment (until Alfred moves out, which Arthur didn’t want to brood over). If that was what he wished, he’d let the boy have it his way since it would be his portrait.

Arthur made him sit upright on a bar stool and wear a neutral expression, nothing suggestive or explicit with his angled body. He was pretty sure his face glowed red upon looking into those determined eyes and wished the boy failed to catch it.

“Don’t move,” he instructed while setting up the canvas and the easel with adept haste, then snatched a thin brush and fluid acrylics to start the initial sketch. But just as the first stroke touched the blank cloth, Alfred shifted a fraction.

“Stop grinning so much. Unless you want to stay that way for the next half hour.”

Alfred shrugged and cracked up, wrecking Arthur’s new workspace with his infectious laughter. “Pfft, sorry, I can’t help it!”

_Not going to laugh. Not going to laugh. Not going to –_

“You are such a child!” Arthur tipped his head back and laughed with him, falling on the floor like crumpled cookie pieces.

They shared laughter for half a minute until it faded into yet another round of silence. When he assumed that he got himself together, Arthur approached his muse to restore his once canvas-perfect posture.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Arthur asked him with a skeptic gaze, eyebrows furrowed.

“YES!” Alfred said, bouncing on his seat. Perhaps he came out a little too thirsty.

Little sparks exploded under his skin as Arthur’s warmth lingered against it. The sensation seemed all too familiar, as if Arthur was the spark of energy he needed in his system, which he only realized after the contact was made. It was strange; he couldn’t explain the sudden connection between the two of them and he was sure it had nothing to do with their overnight affair.

Arthur was just another stranger to him a few weeks back. Why did it feel like he knew him all his life? He tried to think about it, but his attempt to rationalize proved pointless with words.

Alfred’s thoughts dispelled into the air, finding those bright eyes catching light and watching him closely, those long eyelashes fluttered across his face as he blinked. He wondered how long they’d came so near, but he soon realized Arthur was sending him a stiff, warning glance. His lips curled into a crooked grin. Before Arthur could open his mouth to send his final warning, Alfred composed himself for the next half hour.

“Alright, alright.”

Arthur retreated in front of his easel and surveyed the subject, envisioning his portrait’s finished outlook. The scene immersed him – the morning light made its first appearance, replenishing the gloom of the earlier hours. Warm, radiant colors intruded through the window glass, penetrating the thin, satin curtains and coating the washed-out walls. At the center of it all, Alfred sat still, face bathed in brilliant light.

His brush whisked colors together until the desired color palette recurred, the exact scheme that he used in his previous portraits of Alfred. He started with swift lines of beige and mahogany, highlighted by brighter hues of orange, yellow and gold to create illusions of soft silhouettes. The stream of radiance was interjected with an accent of a strong, blue shade, with which Arthur didn’t dare hold contact for fear of distracting his muse once again.

While his hands toiled around the canvas, his mind wandered inside the bureau cabinet where his old paintings of the imaginary Alfred F. Jones resided. The mystery was left unsolved and even intensified by more questions and speculations as the days passed. Arthur knew that they were two different persons – the Alfred of his imagination and the Alfred living with him – and it didn’t take him too long to figure it out.

During their first days of living together, Arthur observed the slight disparity between the two, even if the one he was living with directly materialized from the person in his imagination. He saw this Alfred deviate from the one in his dreams. The Alfred in his mind might be everything Arthur wanted him to be: the one he knew perfectly well, but he only lived in his imagination; while the Alfred sitting before him sometimes did not meet his expectations, admittedly, whose existence might or might not be solely for him, but existed nevertheless.

Arthur soon came to terms with it, knowing the fact that sometimes, people don’t turn out the way we expect them to be. Everyone has their own ideas of people – that they can never live up to in real life – and sadly, our realizations of them is that we like them because of our own ideas of them, which awakens us from an unpleasant, chemically-induced sleep.

In the short time Arthur knew this boy, he was able to bring him indescribable comfort – he was the ray of light that reminded Arthur of all the uplifting things that get him through his gloomy days. He was nothing but human, and as long as he was remained so, Arthur couldn’t really ask for more.

But metaphysical differences aside, the two Alfreds shared the same appealing physique. The artist committed his muse to memory like one of his masterpiece sculptures. He knew the exact shade of his eyes and how they changed depending on his emotions, the shape of his nose and those tiny creases that appeared when he wrinkled it, the curve of his lips into a smile or a frown, and the body language he used according to how he felt. Arthur didn’t need Alfred to sit for him; he knew him by heart.

“Finished?”

Alfred must have been more conscious of how long Arthur had been staring at the nearly-completed canvas. Leave it to Alfred to break the ice in the most awkward of situations. Arthur had to credit him for such smooth talent. He didn’t even give an impression of uneasiness after last night. That was a good sign, wasn’t it?

Yet, something kept bothering Arthur in the back of his mind. If under different circumstances, if Alfred learned about his peculiar origins, would it still be the same for them? Would Alfred still smile and look at him with the same genuine warmth or would he create a permanent shield between them and keep his distance?

Arthur could never live with that.

“Almost.”

Some things were better left unspoken.

Bringing the brush to its final strokes, Arthur began painting candid details in the background. The hints of brownstones outside the window, the wooden ladder against the wall and the little trinkets on top of the bureau, one of them his favorite magnetic paper weight. They were like magnets – he and Alfred – total opposites yet they complement each other. Their connection was as natural as the law of magnetism. They had this stark, innate attraction and Arthur wasn’t willing to let it go.

He unfroze Alfred, motioning to come over and take a look at his work.

“Satisfied?”

Alfred’s eyes lit up into blue flames. “Artie, this is amazing!” he said. “Well, not because it’s me, but – really, this is… this is AMAZING!”

Arthur crossed his arms and raised his eyebrows at Alfred’s impressive choice of adjectives. “I’m still not giving it for free.”

The boy didn’t say more. Eyes fixed on the portrait; he adored the acrylic replica of his face. Watching the scene from Arthur’s distance almost felt like intruding a family reunion.

“Leave it there to dry before you could smudge your precious face.”

Alfred backed up. There would be no distortions of precious faces in his watch. “The last time I painted,” he said. “Was in art class back in high school. The result was so distorted that the teacher actually thought it was abstract, when in fact it was a realistic painting of me and my brother.”

He shook his head and snorted at his teacher’s ignorance. “Rude.”

“That’s sad.” Arthur snickered.

“How long have you been painting?” Alfred asked. “It seems like you’ve been doing it all your life. Can you teach me?”

Arthur blinked and shifted uncomfortably, suddenly reminded of his tasks for the day. He was supposed to do some professional work, but there came Alfred, demanding more attention.   He wasn’t in a teach-me-master mood, though. Heck, he wasn’t even confident about his style and that was pretty hard to explain to someone who looked up to him too much.

Thankfully, Alfred continued throwing rhetorical questions and tidbits of his high school masterpieces while Arthur half-listened, more concerned with the peeling paint on the wall before him.

“How about you help me repaint this room?” Arthur asked.

And that was how they would spend the rest of the weekend, since Alfred was so motivated dabbling with art. He couldn’t ask for a better consolation. The same rules applied – he helped Arthur move things out of the room with the exception of some pieces that Arthur kept insisting he shouldn’t touch. He’d adhered to that rule and learned not to question his housemate’s commands but that didn’t stop him from feeling that Arthur was hiding something that he’d never want him to see.

They emptied the room in less than an hour and Alfred was pleased that he managed not to irk Arthur. He couldn’t decide how to act around Arthur sometimes. He learned to live with measured movements because otherwise he’d pull the wrong string and make him go ballistic. If he was given the chance to write the _Living With Arthur Kirkland Survival Guide_ , the number one rule would certainly be “Follow the instructions”.

And follow the instructions he did. For the next hour, he did as he was told: lay drop cloths under the walls, applied masking tape around the windows, scraped away the loose paint, and many other ceremonials to get to the real action.  Arthur towed the plethora of latex paint cans inside, which was pretty much like a complete collection of the color chart, and gave Alfred his Freedom Wall as an early incentive. That kept them working silently (and efficiently), dividing the tasks and spaces, without having the need to talk and end up with miserably awkward moments. It was a sustainable idea until they were almost finished with the first coating, when Arthur had to approach the opposite side to get a spare brush.

Alfred sat on the floor, happily slapping white paint while thinking about the images he would include in his mural. He was unaware of Arthur drawing near.

“Alfred, will you hand me the –”

Oops. As he turned his head at the mention of his name, Arthur’s brush smeared white latex across his face.

“Oh dear, I’m sorry!” Arthur backed off, eyes wide with astonishment.

“Yeah? Well, I’m sorry too.”

He didn’t have the time to suspect Alfred’s apology. The next second, Alfred was wiping paint on his face for compensation.

“I didn’t mean it, you bloody wanker! I said I’m sorry!”

One, two, three, four brush strokes licked Alfred’s torso, followed by a few more until he nearly pressed his back against his wet Freedom Wall. No apology was given this time. “Hey, this is my favorite shirt!”

“That’s some fast drying paint you got there,” Arthur flashed a villainous smirk. “Once it sets in, you’re toast. Bye bye favorite shirt.”

Alfred’s mouth hung open. He wasn’t prepared for this. Not. At. All. Wearing his favorite shirt while house painting? What was he thinking? This was the price he paid for pursuing his love of art. Getting excited by anything had been destructive for him since he could remember. He could get so hyped up he’d fly with abandon to venture the road of excitement, not caring about the things he left behind. In this case, it was that old shirt he always chose over his newer, more decent ones.

RIP favorite shirt. You will be missed.

He looked down on his whitewashed torso, internally mourning his loss. He didn’t have much after all. Unlike his housemate who seemed like he owned black t-shirts as any department store would sell because he never saw him repeat any piece of clothing. The fact just gave him the encouragement to unleash a Paint War, and there was no going back.

Alfred dipped his brush to the nearest can and swept on Arthur’s shirt until it felt like he’d given justice to his favorite shirt. And it went on. Arthur graciously returned Alfred’s strokes, tossing him all the colors of a nightmare palette to any painter in history. Alfred deflected each aim, ran and hopped around, but what was the point of running, really? It wasn’t like there was anywhere else to go! He could step out the door, but he was sure as hell he’d be sleeping in the streets that night if he’d spewed paint outside those four walls. He just made sure that he returned Arthur’s every attack until they could call it quits and reach an armistice. 

The studio was shrouded with more giggles than their colorful mess, but they managed to keep the walls immaculate for a second coating. They were two grade-schoolers living the joy of playing with paint over their forgotten chore, having a good laugh at each other’s appearances – they looked like Andy Warhol’s pop art icons, demented editions. 

Arthur tripped over a can of dandelion hue, creating a golden river on the floor. Alfred stopped right on spot, which turned out to be a bad decision when Arthur splattered the remaining contents on him, sniggering in victory. He tried saving his face from the impact, sacrificing his hair and his forearms. He aggressively snatched Arthur’s wrists to have his revenge, but Arthur came laughing even harder and flailing and pleading breathlessly to stop their childish game that instant.

Alfred was having none of it and he shut him with a kiss.

In one fell swoop, he kissed Arthur harder than he ought to and knocked him backwards. The shock snapped in a second or two and Arthur responded, kissing him back, sucking on his lower lip. Alfred’s hands held his face as if he’d dissolve into thin air if he let him go. Their tongues slid inside each other’s mouth, clouding their minds with the moment’s bliss. They kissed until their knees gave in and they landed on the spotted floor, breaking away only when the need for oxygen came.

Alfred was mindful of his weight pressed against Arthur, hands and knees on the floor for support. For a long while, they said nothing. Only their heavy breathing made noise.

Arthur studied Alfred’s face, the same dark shade as his. His eyes trailed down his neck and he was amused to find the bruising bite mark he left on it the night before. But he pretended not to see. He raised his wet-painted thumb and marked Alfred’s forehead.

“Simba.”

They laughed.

Retaining his huge smile, Alfred rested his forehead against Arthur’s. “What drugs are you on, Artie?”

“You wouldn’t want to know,” Arthur said. He squeezed Alfred’s soft cheeks and smacked those fishy lips, preventing him from making another inappropriate joke.

Dopamine, serotonin, oxytocin…

Arthur was under the influence of a highly intoxicating chemical with a four-letter name. How could Alfred not know when it was he who injected it?

They lay on the floor side by side, losing track of time as they laughed and shed happy tears, smeared more paint on their faces, and simply listened to each other’s breathing, surrounded by their polychromatic chaos. At some point, they managed to get back on their feet and deal with their unfinished business, pretending they had enough kisses.

☆

“Stop using too much black, will you?”

Arthur turned to Alfred, half expecting another trick from the American to steal another kiss.

But Alfred’s tone was unheard of, sharp and offended.

Arthur spared his wall another glance, which was predominantly patterned black on marginal white. He couldn’t see anything wrong or offending about it, though. He dismissed Alfred’s comment and continued painting, but he caught a glance of Alfred looking so troubled.

“Why,” Despite the apparent lack of question mark, Arthur got an answer. 

“It feels so heavy,” Alfred shrugged, unconsciously dropping his paintbrush on the floor. “Stop using it.”

His voice lacked the previous tartness that was replaced with a low, vulnerable tone. Arthur watched him across the room. Did he look pale? Was he suddenly sick?

The Brit was about to say something when he went on.

“Kinda brings me down, I don’t know. I just don’t like being surrounded with dark colors, I guess. Much less _black_ ,” Alfred said.

Arthur couldn’t decipher what was happening. Alfred just had a full turn of emotions, quicker than Arthur had ever experienced. And out of the blue. Something told him there was a possibility it wouldn’t end up nicely if he pointed that out. It made him break out in cold sweat and his heart race.

Maybe Alfred was already tired. Hours of fooling around with paint could be ~~so~~ exhausting. Tomorrow, Alfred would be back to his cheerful self again. He would have his sunny smile on his face and he wouldn’t have that acidic tone in his voice. He wouldn’t scare Arthur with his roller-coaster emotions.

But Alfred couldn’t take his eyes off of his wall and he still had that disapproving look on his face. Arthur studied the splotches of paint covering Alfred, as well as the wall behind him. Alfred’s wall was brimming with balanced flamboyance.  

Loud shades of red and orange: energy, passion, excitement, and aggression;

Yellow: extraversion, cheerfulness, and creativity;

Green: balance and harmony;

Blue: calmness and relaxation.

The same hues coated their skin while Arthur's wall was covered with an opposing overwhelming color.

Black: coldness, heaviness, and everything associated with pessimism.

While it was a well-known fact that every color had varying positive and negative connotations, and was always open to interpretation, said words best represented the moods melded in that moment.

They decided to take another break and found themselves lying on the floor again, resting their tired limbs. Arthur didn’t bother asking, but assumed that Alfred suddenly wasn’t feeling well. They were facing the sunset, blanking over their issues at hand. Alfred had one of his arms around Arthur while the Brit played with the tangled strands of his hair. The sky was a horizontal stroke of lilac and peach, as the sun set over the cityscapes. Whatever happened to lunchtime? 

The solemnity of the moment was disturbed by a loud, gurgling sound.

“I think that’s my queue to make dinner,” Alfred said.

Arthur nodded and sat up.

Alfred hesitated, mustering the guts for one last kiss before walking out the door.

The soft, quick touch of Alfred’s lips melted Arthur’s uneasiness away, but just a little bit. With the warmth starting to build up inside him, he watched Alfred leave the room. 

Arthur looked around, trying to comprehend what the hell just happened. He couldn’t simply put the feeling away. He felt it. He felt the coldness, the harshness and the negativity arrowed straight through him. It hit him out of nowhere. One second they were laughing, nothing could go wrong; the next second, Alfred had his flip-side moment. Arthur was drowning in worry. He couldn’t forget the look on Alfred’s face. His blue eyes were unfathomably dark, expression suddenly so cold as if he was another person.

Alfred mentioned something about colors. The color black, specifically. Arthur thought back to his old paintings and assessed that he’d always used lively colors. Alfred bathed in bright colors as if his life depended on them.

Was it possible that colors could dictate him?

It didn’t sound logical at any angle, but then again, Alfred materialized from his portraits. From his imagination.

“Artie!”

Arthur shrugged at the sound of his name, losing his train of thought. “Yes?”

He took a deep breath and got on his feet, scanning the mess around him. Perhaps the clutter could wait until tomorrow. He needed to do some cleaning on himself.

He followed Alfred to the bathroom.

☆ 

The jig was up and there was nothing to hide.

Come weekdays, Arthur finished the painting job by himself to avoid any unwanted episodes with Alfred. In return, the boy helped him to move the things back inside the studio after he came from work. No comment was given regarding the final outcome.

It was one of those days that Alfred found Arthur nestled on the couch, leafing through his book. He announced his arrival and dropped his knapsack on the edge of the couch where the lamp stood but Arthur seemed so preoccupied that he could only afford a hum.

He wouldn’t stop until he was given full attention. The next step was to make another distraction. Perhaps the babbling TV people would earn him attention, but no. Arthur was still so conveniently lost in his literary world. Alfred’s face was a puppy dog pout as he sat on the other end of the couch and lifted the Brit’s skinny legs on his lap.

Not even a glance. How cruel.

Alfred wormed his way beside Arthur, taking up the free space between him and the cushion, which equated to a portion of Arthur’s privacy. His strong (and irresistible) toffee and whipped cream musk could be a weapon for distraction if he tried hard enough. While Arthur had his eyes on his book, Alfred took the chance to steal the first kiss of the day.

“Spoiled brat,” Arthur muttered under his breath.

Alfred grinned. Two words!

Giggling like a school girl, he rubbed his nose on Arthur’s collar and inhaled his favorite hypnotic honeysuckle scent. He draped a leg between Arthur’s and wrapped an arm around his torso. But the book won the Brit’s attention, much to Alfred’s dismay. All he wanted was to cuddle on the couch after a hard day’s work. Was that too much to ask?

He pulled away. Might as well find something to get occupied so he fished his phone from his back pocket to check on his Tumblr dashboard.

“You’re INTJ?” Alfred asked.

Still no response.

He started reading aloud the photo posts in sight and dropped side comments.

“Wow, talk about spamming. You must be so proud being part of the exclusive club of evil geniuses,” Alfred kept talking to himself, eyebrows raised with amusement. “One of the rarest personality type consisting 2% of the US population.”

“You know very well, Mister, that I am _not_ American,” Arthur flicked through the next page.

“But you’re a resident now.”

“Still not American.”

Alfred shrugged and scrolled on.

“‘INTJs dislike messiness and inefficiency, and anything that is muddled and unclear.’” Alfred snorted. “Yeah, that is _so_ you.”

The next post made him laugh even more.

 “‘INTJ. We invented the death glare’,” he read with a smile. “You’re always giving me that look!”

When silence fell, Arthur began to realize what Alfred had been talking about all along. He threw his book on the coffee table.

“…Are you stalking my Tumblr?!”

Alfred bared his pearly whites as if he was brushing them.

Arthur sat up in alarm.

“What- wh- how?” he mumbled. “That’s private!”

“I-I just found it when I was Googling you.”

“And why were you Googling me?”

“I always do that with my housemates! Chill. Okay, I’m kind of good at digging internet dirt and I happened to find a familiar painting on Tumblr that had like a gazillion notes so I checked it out. At first I was worried that it might be some art thief taking credit but I was so relieved to see the username _ajkirkland_ and apparently it turned out to be yours.”

Arthur held that laser beam gaze. How much did Alfred see?

“Nosy boy.”

Alfred laughed. “You can’t really call people nosy when it’s so easy for them to find your things,” he said. “I thought your middle name is Cedric?”

“It is,” Arthur replied, “but I preferred my mother’s maiden name in that matter. Jacobs.”

He wouldn’t disclose that information had he been in the UK because people would know right then and there about his mother’s family and pry about their noble pedigree. He disliked controversies of those sorts. But he didn’t mind telling Alfred, because it was America. The boy wouldn’t have a clue and would never ask about the House of Lords whatsoever.

“I didn’t read your personal posts,” Alfred said. “No worries.”

Arthur’s eyes narrowed into slits. “You better not. Or else I will have your head on a platter.”

“Will it be gold or silver?”

“Rust.”

Arthur reached for his phone to check his account and do some damage control. He sank back to the throw pillows, back to Alfred’s side. His one-minute absence felt yearlong to Alfred and to make up for it, he smiled and covered his face with kisses. He practically entwined himself all over Arthur until they snuggled to his idea of intimacy.

“You’re such a snob, you never followed back,” he pouted on Arthur’s shoulder.

“I usually only follow fellow artists, though I’m not very selective now. As long as the blog’s nice I follow back.”

He squinted. “What are you implying?”

Arthur batted his eyelashes and scrolled away. “So you’re _coffeeprince0704_ ,” he grinned mockingly. “How creative.”

Alfred blushed and stuck out his tongue. “I made it while I was on break, don’t judge me.”

At the back of his mind, Arthur tried recalling how long Alfred had been following him.

“Hey, I’m an ENFP.”

Arthur gave him a strange look that most likely translated to _So?_

“My personality type is the most compatible with yours!” Alfred announced like he unearthed a long lost billion-dollar artifact.

Arthur raised an eyebrow. He had read about ENFPs – those extraverted, dreamy, and highly optimistic creatures with energy of a thousand suns. In short, they’re dangerous. Extremely dangerous.

“Do you know that you share the same personality type with Isaac Newton, Karl Marx, Jane Austen as well as Vladimir Lenin and Anders Breivik?” Alfred asked.

It seemed like MBTI was the flavor of the night, with the resident junkie around.

“Alfred,” Arthur mumbled. “Your dork is showing.”

But he let Alfred dork around all night and sat there with him, contentedly listening and watching his eyes glow with passion for the world.

☆

“Yes, I’m working on a few pieces.”

Arthur tucked his phone between his ear and his shoulder as he talked to his Dutch friend on the other end. He was almost finished working in his studio when his friend phoned him to say hi and ask an update about the paintings Arthur would be sending for the NYC exhibit. Arthur explained that he already found a subject and he was planning to make a series about it.

“Alright, see you in April.” He hung up.

He called it a day and brought the materials back to their respective places. While going through his drawers, he retrieved his primary sketches of Alfred. Those rough concepts he sketched from his dreams after meeting the dog walker at the park, whom his current roommate took after.

He grabbed a mechanical pencil and a sketchbook. He loved playing around with small story lines even before his university days. He always found a thrill in creating original characters because it felt like giving life to people out of lines, colors and imagination, which apparently was the unpredicted case of Alfred Foster Jones.

He imagined Alfred living a different profession. With such a physique, Alfred would make a good Secret Service agent. Also, his hero complex would allow him the ability to protect people for a living. Yes, that could work. God knows how great Alfred looked in a black suit. In less than five minutes, the paper had a tall, masculine figure in formal attire, with cropped hair and sunglasses. Arthur devoted the following minutes dabbling with the new concept and creating a page-long comic until the front door opened, the real-life muse stepping inside the apartment.

The door to the studio was left ajar and Alfred directly found Arthur sitting on his desk.

“How was work?” Arthur asked with slight apprehension, slowly closing the sketchpad.

Alfred sighed. “I just got a call from the White House. They want me to be there pronto.”

He spoke as he rushed to the bedroom.

Arthur dropped everything he was holding and reluctantly followed Alfred to the bedroom only to find him packing his things. “Pardon?”

Alfred paused for a second and resumed throwing clothes inside his duffel bag. “Can’t talk right now, sorry.”

He dashed to the bathroom, returned to fling his toiletries in the bag and secured it on his shoulder. “I gotta go. See you next week, babe.”

Words failed to leave Arthur’s mouth as Alfred gave him a peck on the lips and scurried out the door.

He stood there frozen and unblinking, his head replaying the last five minutes. He was sitting on at his desk, sketching an original character, when Alfred arrived assuming the same identity. His roommate left and trailed away on a seven-hour trip to the Capitol.

Arthur sprinted to his desk, contemplating this new discovery. As his creator, he had control of Alfred. He lived for Arthur, it seemed. How cool was that? He could make Alfred do whatever he wanted him to, anything he wished.

He could make Alfred love him and stay with him for the rest of his life. He would have someone who would never leave him, at long last…

But first, something should be undone for Alfred’s return. If he ripped the new sketches and threw them away, would it bring Alfred back and appear like it never happened? He didn’t have any idea but he took the risk, anyway. He closed the sketchpad and locked it up together with the initial sketches of Alfred, never to be touched ever again.

After less than a minute, he heard footsteps approaching the hallway. Alfred came into sight, looking clueless and puzzled as if he woke up from sleepwalking.

“I said I was just going to the deli, right?” he asked, eyebrows knit together. He placed his bag on the floor, mentally questioning his brain why on earth would he take a week’s worth of clothing with him. “What was I thinking?”

Arthur’s pallid face told him he didn’t know either. Was he even breathing?

He took a few, careful steps closer to Arthur. “Uh, s-say, d-do you wanna have Chinese takeout for tonight?”

Arthur nodded. “Er, yeah. T-that would be great.”

“Great.” Alfred echoed and burst out the door.

Arthur sank to his swivel chair and cradled his head in his hands.

No, he would never draw or paint about Alfred again. He’d forget him as his muse; he’d find another subject for the exhibit. Alfred was more than just an idea, he was a human being. He wasn’t a three-dimensional robot Arthur could toy around.

Alfred was his own man. He was the pilot of his life, no one else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this update. :D  
> Have a nice, happy and cozy holiday season!


	8. Silver clouds with gray lining

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: self-harm

What better way to spend a rainy night than propped up in bed sharing a tub of ice cream? 

Alfred straightened up against the headboard and slid an arm around Arthur’s shoulders. They were in their comfy bedtime clothes – Alfred in his hoodie and sweatpants, Arthur in his pajamas. It was Friday night movie marathon (which strictly followed Arthur’s choices) and the top pick was _Silver Linings Playbook_.

Arthur seemed a little restless on the other side of the bed, subtly tucking himself closer to Alfred with each thunderclap, but Alfred couldn’t complain.

“Aw, the widdle boy’s scared of thunder?” Alfred teased.

Arthur’s glare cut him short.

Alfred giggled. He hadn’t shaved for days; Arthur could tell from the rough stubble when he rubbed his cheek on his.

The American was inarguably the more expressive one between the two of them, but Arthur had his ways of displaying affection. Although it was very rare, Alfred found it heartwarming like when he woke up cuddled, feeling Arthur’s warm breath tingling on the crook of his neck.

_“How am I being rude?”_

_“Well you know, you know, c’mon...”_

_“Look, sometimes it’s okay with girls like this, they wanna have fun, and sometimes it’s not, because they got a broken wing and they’re hurt and they’re an easy target. And in this case, in this particular case, I think that that wing is being fixed, my friend. And you gotta make sure it gets mended and you’re getting in the way of that right now, okay? And because she’s sensitive and she’s smart, she’s artistic. This is a great girl, you gotta be respectful to that. C’mon…”_

Through the faint screen glow, Alfred admired how Arthur was so engrossed with the movie as though he was part of it, watching the scenes happen before his own eyes. Arthur had seen it a number of times before, but he didn’t seem to get tired of it. Much to his delight, he finally convinced Alfred to watch it with him.

“Artie —”

“Shh.”

He was forced to keep his mouth shut or else he would have to sleep back in his cold and lonely fortress that was the couch. Instead, he tried claiming the tub of Ben & Jerry’s from him because Arthur only held it for display. He had two scoops since the beginning of the movie and yet he guarded it like a newfound treasure chest. Alfred found the monopoly unfair; he paid half of it after all.

_“How are you in love? Tell me about that – the big Nikki love – tell me about it. I wanna understand it.”_

_“We have a very unconventional chemistry. It makes people feel awkward but not me, alright? She’s the most beautiful woman I ever been with.”_

_“Wow.”_

_“It’s electric between us! Okay, yeah, we wanna change each other but that’s normal. Couples wanna do that. I want her to stop dressing like she dresses, I want her to stop acting so superior to me, okay? And she wanted me to lose weight and stop my mood swings which both I’ve done. I mean people fight, couples fight. We would fight. We wouldn’t talk for a couple of weeks; that’s normal. She always wanted the best for me–”_

_“Wow.”_

_“– she wanted me to be passionate and compassionate and that’s a good thing, you know? I just – look, I’m my best self today and I think she’s her best self today and our love’s gonna be fucking amazing.”_

They stayed that way until the end of the movie. Alfred turned the lights on and opened a topic for debate. The Brit heavily patronized those subtitled foreign films, which Alfred hated because he found most of them depressing. As of what he’d watched, he could count those that had happy endings with his ten fingers, but Arthur had always justified that ‘they show reality’. _Not all stories end happily in real life_ , Arthur would say.

Since he always agreed to Arthur’s choices, Alfred insisted that they should watch his hero movies some time. He couldn’t get over the fact that Arthur hadn’t watched _The Avengers_ yet. He also told him off for being such a movie snob and limiting his choices to ‘critically acclaimed films’.

“You’re missing a third of your life, Artie!” Alfred said, plopping on his tummy back to the bed. “How can you not be amazed with heroes like me? Spiderman, Superman… Batman!”

“Oh, I know one more!” Arthur grinned. “Fatman, the self-proclaimed hero.”

Alfred set his jaw. He hadn’t had the chance to go the gym as frequently after he lost his other jobs. He did gain weight and his muscles were a little less toned this time, but it was a subtle change. Arthur caught him one time while checking his weight and he looked so defeated, but the Brit didn’t say anything. It was so easy for him to make fun of Alfred because he didn’t have problems with weight. He ate less than necessary anyway.

“Alright, Fatman,” Arthur said, poking Alfred’s flabby sides. “You can pick the film next time.”

Alfred cheered like a kid. “Yay!”

“You should be grateful I have appreciation to spare for your American films!”

“Well there’s no reason not to, is there? They’re all works of genius!”

“Patriotic bastard,” Arthur batted his eyelashes. “Do you even consider looking at the countries outside your own? I doubt you can name 10 countries without saying the United States of fucking America.”

Alfred’s eyebrows almost reached his hairline. “What are you trying to say? I studied geography too, you know.”

“Now did you?”

“Try me. I can fucking name every fucking country on the world map.”

Arthur noted the emphasis on _world_. “Go ahead, then.”

“Canada —”

Arthur snorted.

“China —”

Arthur sneered more condescendingly. “Of course, you’d never want to miss your toy factory.”

“The United Kingdom, France, Russia, Germany, Italy, Japan, Spain, Ireland.” Alfred finished.

Arthur crossed his arms. “Why did you stop? I thought you said you can fucking name every fucking country on the world map?”

Alfred squinted at him. He took the challenge and recited at random without skipping a beat.

“Bosnia and Herzegovina, Djibouti, Nicaragua, Kosovo,” he said. “Bulgaria.”

“What are you doing?”

“Israel, Kuwait, Mexico.”

“Alfred, stop.”

“South Korea, Argentina, Madagascar.”

“Alfred!”

He tickled Arthur for every country, poking him tirelessly until he was a breathless, tearful mess. He made sure Arthur got the point until he stopped.

They fell on the mountain of pillows together, heaving for air. Alfred leaned closer and placed a lingering kiss on Arthur’s lips.

“I want to run away,” Arthur said when he pulled back. “Go somewhere far.”

Alfred blinked. “Where?”

“I dunno,” he sighed. “I want to be anywhere but here.” 

Alfred rolled over to lie beside him, thoughtful. He considered Arthur’s impulsive idea. Maybe he missed visiting cities?

“W-We can start with New York next spring,” he suggested. “I’ll come with you.”

He looked at Arthur for approval but he met his pondering face instead. “Then LA on summer after I pay all my dues,” he continued. His thumb brushed small circles on the back of Arthur’s hand. “Then whatever comes next. We’ll have our adventure together!”

Arthur laced his fingers with Alfred’s. He liked the idea, but his mind fleeted on Christmas being merely a month away.

“We can,” he hesitated, “we can spend the holidays in London…”

When was the last time Arthur went home? He seemed to miss it so, though he never spoke of it.

“Yeah,” Alfred said. “And we can spend my birthday in my parents’ house in California. Mattie will be home by then because he’ll celebrate his birthday too.”

Arthur sighed. “I don’t know, Al,” he said. “I’m not always my best at that time of the year.”

Alfred gave him a skeptical look. Was he joking? His birthday was on the Fourth of July. Why would he be ill at such glorious time?

“Oh, you can’t just handle the greatness of American freedom!” he laughed.

“Git.”

Arthur lowered his head to use Alfred’s arm as a pillow.  “Where else do you want to go?”

Alfred studied the ceiling. “To the outer space!”

Arthur laughed and patted his cheek with the back of his hand. “Weirdo.”

There was no denying it. Alfred F. Jones was weirdest boyfriend he ever had.

“But to be honest, I’d rather stay here with you,” Alfred kissed his forehead.

Arthur sat up and reached for their unfinished ice cream. He took a bite and smudged a spoonful on the corner of Alfred’s lips. He wiped it clean with his tongue that slid inside Alfred’s mouth. Alfred kissed him back, his lips following the outline of Arthur’s chin, slowly lowering to his neck and collarbone. Both of them tasted the same – sweet, creamy strawberries.

Arthur lay flat on the mattress and pinned Alfred’s body between his legs, letting Alfred grind freely against him. He nibbled at Alfred’s ear and whispered, “Turn the lights out.”

The only light that lingered was from the occasional struck of lightning and wispy streetlights passing through the blinds. Arthur still seemed a little tense, flinching slightly at the growling thunder, but Alfred provided a worthy distraction.

Alfred reached for him and carried on. They kissed and rolled over, taking their time to undo the layers of clothing as they felt each other. Under the sheets, they were skin to skin, nothing in between.

Arthur’s fingertips gave his cheeks and jaw a delicate sweep. He lay on his side and perched a leg over his lover’s hips. Alfred let his hand roam from Arthur’s spine downward and caress the smooth skin of his behind. Feeling a finger between his open legs easing onto his entrance, Arthur winced and smirked into the kiss. He kissed him back with more force, pressing his erection against him.

Kissing Arthur from his ear down to his neck, Alfred inhaled his bath-soap scent, still fresh from shower before dinner. He reached for the lube and condom on the nightstand. He liked the sensation, the pressure of his length being hugged and growing harder. Giving it time to warm up, he caught a glimpse of Mr. Cuddlebuns, Arthur’s teddy bear, and made it face the wall so he wouldn’t feel intimidated.

“Ready?”

Arthur nodded and tugged his dog tag necklace, smiling.

They would do it like it was their first time, since they weren’t sure what the hell they were thinking back then. Alfred took the lead this time and Arthur consented.

There were countless men before Alfred, and this was just one of those sloppy nights for Arthur. He did it for reasons – sometimes because of intense affection, sometimes simply out of caprice. He loved sex. He loved the feeling of penetrating and being penetrated, and he would risk anything to fill his craving. His promiscuity was one of the reasons why his past relationships failed, but he couldn’t care less. Alfred’s name would certainly go down his list after this night. He had no clue of how many Alfred had had before, but it didn’t matter.

Only the two of them mattered.

Starting moderately, Alfred soothed down Arthur's rapid heartbeat. He moved with slow, deep thrusts, relaxing while Arthur widened his legs and lifted his ankles to give more room. He delighted in Arthur's sensitivity, how much his touches could make him gasp and squirm.

Alfred lowered himself and rested his chest on Arthur. They held each other closely as they moved together. His breath hitched when Arthur’s nails dug on his back. Grasping a fistful of his hair, Alfred gave his neck a bruising kiss.

“A-Ah!”

Beads of sweat trickled from his forehead. Alfred examined his face, taking it and his body in memory. He kissed the tip of his slim, aquiline nose,pulling away to relish the moonlit view of Arthur's freckles. They dispelled before him like constellations. If he could, he would plant fluttering kisses on each of them.

Self-consciousness immediately filled Arthur; he looked away. His low self-esteem always brought him down. Alfred could tell him how wonderful he was but what good would it be if he’d never acknowledge it?

His legs stiffened around Alfred, then trembled as he felt himself near climax. They screamed together, not holding back their ecstatic high notes from the pleasure of increased intensity. Their incoherent melodies soon covered the bedroom while Alfred finished with his stronger and final thrusts.

Arthur let out a fulfilled sigh and closed his eyes as he came; panting and feeling the heat explode inside him.

Alfred climaxed right away and collapsed beside his lover, happy.

They lay there speechless and unmoving. Drained.

Only left thinking about what they had done, they stared back at the pitch-black ceiling while catching their breaths.

“Oh God,” Alfred puffed. “Oh God, that was incredible!”

Arthur smirked. “Better than last time?”

“It doesn’t count. We were drunk out of our minds.”

Arthur said nothing.

Drooping eyelids, labored breathing. They watched the quick rising and falling of their chests.

The room fell into the stillness of the night sky outside. The rain had finally stopped.

“I love you, Arthur.”

Arthur blinked and paused for a second, unsure of what he heard. He gave Alfred a brief look and laughed. “No, you don’t.”

Alfred felt his face burn and laughed as well. He was secretly thankful of the darkness.

They did a quick cleaning after a few minutes, taking a hot shower to get rid of the sweat and stickiness. Clawing the old sheets away, they kicked them to the floor with their discarded clothes, and raided the closet to get new ones.

Curling up together under the sheets, they fell asleep at once.

Skin to skin. Nothing in between.

☆

Arthur’s therapy session was not until next week, but Kiku met him that afternoon. He was on a friend duty – casually talking and listening to Arthur’s narrative on the progress of his relationship with Alfred. With the mystery still left unsolved and all the possible logical explanations exhausted, they agreed to let it go and treat Alfred how he assumed himself to be. 

“He tries to understand me,” Arthur said, fiddling with the corner of the table. Was he blushing?

“He does? How?”

Kiku encouraged him to say more. It was important for his friend to know that someone cared for him and considered his feelings. He couldn’t be wrong. He didn’t have to know The Science of Deduction to tell that Arthur and Alfred took their relationship to the next level. He simply knew it when Arthur became intimate with someone special and waited for Arthur to tell him. 

While listening, Kiku studied his facial expressions more closely. His friend seemed to be consistently at ease the past few weeks, with little to no traces of anxiety. He realized how much he missed seeing the bright glow on Arthur’s face. He constantly felt bad for the young man; he’d been through a lot after all. 

Arthur fell into severe depression and attempted to take his own life when his last best romance ended with the French boyfriend he wanted to forget. Kiku didn’t know him back then – Arthur was later referred to him when he moved to the US months afterward – but it was his job to learn the history of his patient to help him cope up and improve.

Arthur was in terrible shape when they first met. Shy and self-doubting, reluctance shadowed his eyes. Only in his early twenties, but he was already tired of life. Despite Kiku's insistence that errors were natural, he was overly apologetic about slight mishaps and imaged wrong-doings. He refused to take the prescribed medications, because his body rejected them. It only frustrated him all the more, coupled with seemingly endless relapses, making him totally lose faith with his recovery. He also lost weight every time they met, returning with forced smiles and more reserved behavior.

Other psychiatrists would have probably given up on him at that point, because Borderline was commonly dismissed as a hopeless case if the patient wasn’t showing signs of desire to recover, but Kiku didn’t give up on him.

He lifted his spirits and convinced him his life was worth living. Kiku swore to himself that he would do everything not to let any of his patients fall back into their miserable state again, even more so with Arthur. Life had so much in store and no matter how tough times got, he should never give up. Kiku told him that although it was simpler said than done, he would overcome his struggles if he wanted to and things would always get better if he believed in himself.

Soon enough, he earned Arthur’s trust and recovery became a feasible goal. Kiku developed familial partiality towards him and did whatever he could to help. He opened his apartment for him because he knew how living alone could affect his recovery. Arthur would choose to stay there when he felt like he wouldn’t manage on his own, those days when he felt utterly depressed or when he had recurrent panic attacks. It was also easier for Kiku to monitor any unwanted side effects (such as fainting, loss of appetite, suicidal tendencies) when trying new prescriptions.

There were times when Arthur broke down in front of him, wondering why anyone would bother helping a waste of space such as him. He felt guilty for his kindness and efforts, saying he didn’t deserve such treatment.

But he later figured out what Kiku was trying to teach him. They developed a game plan to reach their goal and planned to get there step by step. Arthur cherished Kiku like family too, thinking he was everything his brothers could have been. He found his anchor – someone who helps him with his troubles and keeps him in place. 

“I can control him,” Arthur searched Kiku’s face for a reaction.

“I can – I can make him do anything I want. Do you know what that means?” he continued.  “I can change him.”

Kiku caught the vivid spark of hope in his eyes. He instantly knew what Arthur was trying to say. He always wished for someone who could be there for him through the good and the bad, and he was thinking Alfred could be that person.

Every therapy session, they would choose a point from their infinite _Reasons To Live_ list and one of the earliest points they discussed was _meeting new people_. Kiku taught him the importance of connecting with people and sharing a special bond with them. It didn’t always have to be a romantic attachment but of course he wanted Arthur to find someone who could make him feel happy and safe.

Given the special circumstances, Arthur’s lifelong wishes could come true. Arthur could make Alfred stay with him and they would live a blissful life together. Wouldn’t it be perfect?

Arthur tore through his bag to show his friend the sketchpad where he made the comic strip that almost sent Alfred to the Capitol. He remembered that he didn’t have the strip and vowed not to draw his muse anymore, but he recounted what happened for the sake of proving his story. He attempted to recreate another one – the last – but this time Alfred would be an exchange student from England, nothing drastic. He figured he wouldn’t want to cause a psychic disturbance to his therapist after all.

They waited.

Alfred Foster Jones appeared in the sea of people across the street and waved at them. He looked the same except for the way he carried himself. He crossed the street with a graceful strut, prim and proper as suggested by the English stereotype. His light, earth-toned sweater complemented his pressed trousers and polished loafers tremendously well.

“Hello, love,” Alfred bent over and kissed Arthur. “Hello, Kiku.”

He took his seat beside Arthur, holding his signature million-watt grin.

“How was your day?” Arthur asked and spared Kiku a sidelong glance. They wouldn’t miss Englishman Alfred for the world.

“Exhausting,” Alfred leaned back to his chair and crossed his legs. “They took me ‘round the campus today.”

He took his camera that was dangling on his chest and hurriedly gave it to Arthur. His excitable nature remained, it seemed. “Look at these.”

Every picture came with a short story. Arthur and Kiku listened while Alfred mused about his day. He talked about the people he’d met so far and his impressions on campus life.

Arthur paid more attention to his manner of speaking. It wasn’t every day that he would hear Alfred speak the Queen’s English. His lilting words blended with his altered intonation, explicating a mellifluous sound. It was a stark contrast to his default West Coast accent. He almost wished Alfred would keep it.

In hindsight, he could make him keep it anytime. Like he said, he could control him and do anything he wanted. However…

“They’re all very considerate, knowing I haven’t adjusted well to America yet.”

Arthur hummed as he breezed through more of his shots. “I’m sure you’ll do wonderful.”

Alfred flashed a coy smile and viewed the pictures with his boyfriend. He pressed his round, thick-framed glasses against the bridge of his nose. “Smashing, isn’t it?”

Kiku watched them from across. Heads bent towards each other, Alfred looked so enthusiastic while Arthur sat complacently by his side. Kiku felt himself fading from the picture, like how Arthur claimed he felt whenever Heracles joined them.

But Arthur was still fully aware of his presence. He met Kiku’s eyes for a second and knew he was internally bursting with laughter. He kept a mental note to ask Kiku later about what he thought of Alfred’s English slang.

“How was _your_ day?” Alfred asked and held a finger upon seeing the pastries and cups on the table. “But before we catch up on that, I’m going to get myself some scones and tea first.”

He excused himself to approach the counter.

Kiku waited until Alfred was out of earshot. “What do you plan to do now?”

Yet another fragment of the mystery was unveiled. Arthur could take full control of Alfred, but the same unspoken thought crossed their minds: there was a price to pay; there had always been.

Arthur tore the strip from the sketchbook and threw the crumpled paper balls inside his bag. Alfred would come back as his old self with an alternate memory of how he got there, just like what happened last time. He shrugged.

“All I know is I won’t draw or paint him ever again,” he told Kiku, though it sounded as if he was reassuring himself.

☆

Mornings became Alfred’s favorite time of day.

He loved waking up to the morning light painting his side of the bed, watching the window become a prism as it threw vibrant autumn colors on the bedroom walls.

What he loved more was waking up under the sheets, next to Arthur.

And Arthur felt the same.

Alfred’s steady heartbeat pressed against his back, the familiar warmth shielding him from the crisp cold. This was how Arthur woke to a start. He smiled, thinking he could get used to it.

Arthur turned his head and studied Alfred in silence. The boy was so conveniently enfolded around him, unaware of his messy hair covering his eyes or the resplendent light hitting his face. Arthur slid his hand along the arm wrapped around him and pecked Alfred’s lips.

“Good morning.”

Eyes kept closed, Alfred hummed and curled tighter into him.

He loved weekend mornings more than anything else. There was no rush, no strict time tables to follow. He could stay like that for as long as he wanted. They remained still for some moments until Alfred nuzzled his neck and ran his fingers across Arthur’s back, feeling his protruding spine against the thin fabric.

Arthur shivered and flipped over to face him.

“You stole the covers last night,” Alfred said. “Again.”

“I did not.”

Alfred raised an eyebrow at Arthur’s admirable sarcasm as he caught him red-handed. Most of the covers were piled up on his side of the bed.

“I was freezing all night,” Alfred pouted.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur laughed and embraced him tight, as though making up for the night’s worth of lost warmth.

Arthur wanted to comment on Alfred’s choice of bedtime clothing but he didn’t say more. The lad slept in his boxers most of the time. He didn’t mind walking around the apartment wearing those or sometimes, nothing at all. He seemed confident enough about himself, even of those quarter-sized scars from his Tom Sawyer days.

Meanwhile, Arthur was this pale, scrawny, and awkward figure who preferred wearing thin shirts with sleeves stretching to his palms.

Alfred took his hands, giving them light squeezes. He was always quite observant around him, especially with the ones he adored. In high school, he took a special interest in the human body – its structure, components, and functions. But those days had passed. This time, all the names, parts, and purposes only corresponded to this particular person beside him. He appreciated all the magnificent reasons behind his existence, for making it possible to share this specific moment with him.

A strange mark on his wrist caught Alfred’s eye. He thought it was a mere trick of light for a second and so he dared take a closer look, but Arthur immediately pulled away.

“Sorry,” Alfred said.

He then remembered seeing more of it when Arthur almost unclothed himself fully on their first encounter, but he didn’t pay much attention. He knew nothing about him in the first place and mentioning them would only make him feel uncomfortable.

But at this point, they were gradually getting to know and becoming comfortable with each other. Alfred wanted to wash away all his reservations and tell him that he would be free from any judgments, if that was what held him back from opening up. He wished he knew how to show him that he was after something beyond physical intimacy.

Dropping compliments became a habit to Alfred over time. He’d say them not because he was being sweet, but because they were true and Arthur deserved to know. He thought so lowly of himself, Alfred came to notice, constantly discontented with everything that had to do with him from his skin, his face, to the color of his hair… Alfred didn’t want to infringe on his personal freedom but he wanted to tell him that it wouldn’t hurt to accept the way he was and to love himself a little more.

Arthur would conclude Alfred’s efforts by brushing him off, saying something along the lines of _I think you need to put your glasses back on_.

These thoughts run through his head when lying awake beside Arthur, in their silent moments like this.

Arthur had his back turned on him again.

“Hey, did you fall asleep on me?” Alfred asked close to his ear.

Arthur didn’t respond.

Alfred hated it when he pretended sleeping. It made him feel abandoned in the middle of an expedition. He tugged the corner of Arthur’s pillow and rested his head on it; Mr. Cuddlebuns remained seated over his head. At least Arthur chose him over his teddy bear as a cuddle buddy. The thought cheered him up just the slightest bit.

He savored the mornings when he woke up next to him because there were days when Alfred found himself alone. They slept together every night – Alfred could recall falling asleep with his head on Arthur’s chest at times and the Brit would be gone the next morning. He was unpredictable. Impulsive. Prone to making rash decisions. It came with sudden shifts of emotions, too. He’d be expressive one moment, irritable the next. He’d become distant all at once. Alfred learned to keep himself alert, ready for whatever atmosphere that would greet him when he opened his eyes.

He was grateful that this was one of the better days. He slipped an arm on Arthur’s waist and was caught off guard by the Brit’s affectionate pull. Never mind the blankets. He could stay like that for hours, spooning Arthur. He pressed his face on his back, toes brushing his ankles. With the sound of tinkling drizzle outside, they let their dreams take hold of them for a while.

☆

All Alfred thought about at work was coming home to Arthur at the end of the day. He thought about it the moment he kissed him goodbye and fled the apartment. Despite his amiable disposition towards co-workers and customers, he impatiently waited for his last hour to tick by so he could rush out to the streets and be with him again.

Weeknights were just as unpredictable as the mornings. Sometimes, Alfred would find Arthur in his workplace, completely oblivious to the world around him, or find himself alone because Arthur drove somewhere and happened not to leave a message.

But that night, Alfred was relieved to find him perched on the bed, unwinding for once. He was in his oversized sweater and Jockey shorts. His reading glasses on, his nose stuck in a new nonfiction book. The sight made Alfred think that Arthur was far too sexy and intellectual for his own good.

Alfred approached the side of the bed.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hello,” Arthur replied. He reached out and kissed him. “How was work?”

“Same old, same old,” Alfred bobbed his head left and right. He got to his feet to change his clothes.

Arthur fell back to the pillows and flipped a page, stealing occasional glances while the other stripped down.

“Any gigs coming up?”

“None.”

“…Haven’t heard from your band mates yet?”

“Nope. Dinner?”

He pulled Arthur from the bed before he could protest.

Alfred cooked while they talked about their day. There was really nothing much to say; he just wanted to keep Arthur talking. He went outside less lately and claimed that his days were uneventful: a cycle of staring at his computer and going out of the room for meals or bathroom breaks, at times answering phone calls.

“Gilbert invited us to come with them to the beach this weekend,” Alfred said.

“What did you say?” Arthur asked.

“I said we’re going,” Alfred said. “Do you have other plans already?”

“Not really,” Arthur said. “I just…”

“Don’t you want to come?”

Arthur took a deep breath for a second’s hesitation. Alfred was looking at him with a child’s expectant gaze. He was scared any statement that would come out of his mouth might break his heart.

“I’ll think about it,” he said, hopping out of his seat.

“But that’s another way of saying ‘no’,” Alfred frowned. He started collecting dishes from the counter.

“I mean what I said, Al,” Arthur replied. “I’ll think about it.”

“Is there something I should know?”

Arthur shook his head and went back to the bedroom.

Alfred sighed. Where did he go wrong this time?

He didn’t mention a word about it again when he headed off to bed. Arthur chose to ignore his presence and rendered undivided attention to his book. Alfred wanted to say sorry for whatever he did wrong. It was his least intention to ruin the night but he was too scared to say anything, leaving him to compensating gestures.

He tucked himself between Arthur’s legs and cocooned his body with his arms, using his stomach as a pillow. On lazy mornings, they often assembled themselves that way. While Arthur read his book, Alfred played with his PSP. But neither moved nor said a word for hours until Arthur decided to turn off the night light.

“Read to me?” Alfred asked.

Arthur yawned. He had just returned his book and glasses to the nightstand. “It’s time to sleep, Al. I’m tired.”

“But I like listening to your voice,” Alfred said, worming to his side of the bed. “Just a short bit. Please?”

Arthur knew he wouldn’t let it go. He gave in to his request and grabbed another book from the nightstand pile. There were at least seven of them that he left unfinished. It became a routine, starting another book without finishing the previous ones.

Alfred had no preferences with Arthur’s readings. He was happy falling asleep to the sound of his tranquil voice. He secured himself under a fair portion of blankets and waited.

Arthur opened _The Alchemist_ by Paulo Coelho and proceeded where he stopped:

_“Everyone on earth has a treasure that awaits him,” his heart said. “We, people’s hearts, seldom say much about those treasures, because people no longer want to go in search of them. We speak of them only to children. Later, we simply let life proceed, in its own direction, towards its own fate. But, unfortunately, very few follow the path laid out for them – the path to their destinies, and to happiness. Most people see the world as a threatening place, and, because they do, the world turns out, indeed to be a threatening place._

_“So, we, their hearts, speak more and more softly. We never stop speaking out, but we begin to hope that our words won’t be heard: we don’t want people to suffer because they don’t follow their hearts.”_

_“Why don’t people’s hearts tell them to continue follow their dreams?” the boy asked the alchemist._

_“Because that’s what makes a heart suffer most, and hearts do not like to suffer.”_

His fingers ran through Alfred’s hair once in a while, taking in its softness. Alfred remained quiet the entire time. Before Arthur finished reading this part, he was fast asleep.

“Lights off.”

He switched off the lamp and snuggled under the sheets. Unlike Alfred, he hadn’t slept at once. He kept thinking about what he just read, whether it was true to him or not. If his heart could speak, what would it tell him?

He could pursue the treasure awaiting him, yet he doubted that his heart was prepared to suffer.

☆

Arthur lost count of the times he raised his palm to send ‘wait’ signals.

He huffed and puffed and coughed in the hopes of catching Alfred’s attention eventually. Perhaps it was a bad decision to go to running with him for an hour on a weekday morning. He hadn’t run as much since he quitted football.

Alfred jogged back to his side.

“Hey,” he said. “Are you okay?”

“What do you think?” Arthur panted and coughed some more, hands on his knees.

“It’s not yet late to quit smoking.”

Arthur gave him the death glare. Even if he did, he’d never acquire Alfred’s innate monster strength and speed.

“Come here,” Alfred said, pulling Arthur to towel the sweat off his face.

They resorted to walking. Alfred was able to convince Arthur that it would be a nice morning to go for a run when he checked the weather last night. And, indeed, it was. The thin, mid-November air felt gentle against their skin, perfectly shrouding the harsh daylight.

For fifteen minutes, they walked side by side and held hands.

“I’ll race you home,” Alfred said when he saw their apartment complex from a distance. “The first one to reach home makes breakfast.”

That sounded so wrong. Arthur felt slashed by the double edged-statement.

But he ran, consistently trekking behind Alfred.

They’d been cooking together. Alfred insisted teaching Arthur what he knew so he could make his own meals when Alfred wasn’t around. He disliked the idea of Arthur depending on restaurants and delivery service because there were times when Arthur would be too lazy to lift a finger and eat. Laziness shouldn’t be applied on that department. Alfred was eager to catch him in the morning, not letting Arthur leave the apartment without having anything. He could be so reckless even with himself. No wonder why his mother constantly worried about him.

Alfred assumed his task in the kitchen, making pancakes and singing along to the songs on the radio while Arthur slipped back to the studio. His adoptive parents taught him how to do it with their secret mix (complete with maple syrup and all) and his version wasn’t so bad. The sudden thought reminded him of how much he missed them.

He grew up in foster homes where he spent most of his time wondering what it felt like to be with his biological family. It wasn’t too late to experience a close second after his adoptive parents took him in to their lives. He was raised with love and treated with utmost care just like how they did with Matthew. Never did they make him feel that he was an adopted child.

But still, being with your biological family was unlike any other experience. Arthur was lucky to be with his family. He hadn’t mentioned his siblings but he had framed photos of them by the bookshelves. The relationship he had with his mum was all Alfred could wish for if he ever met his biological mother. Arthur brought up one time that she remarried and he seemed to get along with his stepfather quite well.

What would it be like meeting them in person? He had to be prepared if he was to spend the holidays with them. Alfred tried to contain the treacherous blush on his face.

“Breakfast is ready!”

It was wishful thinking that the artist would come out from his natural habitat straightaway. Alfred broke inside the tech hub to find Arthur doing some stretching in front of his computers. Yes, computers. He had all his computers and other gizmos open, each screen flashing a different project, making the studio look like a mini Apple store. Top of the line multitasking at its finest.

“Gimme a minute,” Arthur said, yawning and extending his arms over his head.

Alfred gave him a second. He grabbed his waist and carried him on his shoulder, taking him to the dining room.

“Alfred, you bugger!” Arthur protested as he kicked and drummed his clenched fists on Alfred’s back.

Alfred sat him down on a counter seat.

“You can’t just carry people around like that!”

He hated it when Alfred demonstrated his monster strength as if it was nothing at all.

“I said breakfast is ready,” Alfred said and glanced at the clock. “And I’m late for work.”

He served him his platter and ate up beside him.

Arthur paused to stare at the food tentatively as though examining an unknown specimen. His throat clenched at the amount of syrup poured upon it. He gave Alfred sidelong glances before ceremoniously cutting meticulous grids on his pancakes.

Little did he know, Alfred was watching him.

“What?” He paused mid-bite.

“You are so adorable!” Alfred flashed his broad grin and kissed his nose.

He blushed.

They resumed eating in silence. Arthur read the morning paper, leisurely consuming his food, while Alfred rushed his meal.

“This is excellent, Alfred,” he said. He felt the need to say it out loud.

“I know,” Alfred replied. “Kidding!”

He took one last bite and added, “I’m so happy you liked it, seriously. That’s like my parents’ culinary heirloom.”

The smile on his face lingered even as he washed his plate. Since he said they were excellent, he expected Arthur to finish them.

“Don’t leave the counter without finishing that, okay, Skinny?” he asked, drying his hands with the towel.

“Yeah, yeah, Fatman.”

He seized his face for a deep, fervid kiss and hit the showers.

☆

Arthur lit his last cigarette for the day. He took a slow drag and released the cloud of smoke outside the window. He had to tidy up. Alfred would be home soon and whine about the nicotinic fragrance like he always did. He marched out of the studio to empty the ashtray and light vanilla-scented candles.

Another day was turning into night. The air got colder each day as the end of the month approached. He returned to the room and analyzed the calendar, trailing a finger across the numbered days.

_Three weeks and four days_ , he counted.

He wanted to know how long it would last, whatever he and Alfred shared. He refused to call it a romantic relationship, if it was anything serious at all. He was unsure of everything: his feelings, Alfred’s intentions, and what would become of them if they decided to stay together. Flashbacks of their intimate moments pelted in his head. Alfred was showing too much kindness that Arthur kept questioning himself whether he deserved it or not, making him draw back in the end.

And there was the confession, those three words he said aloud. Arthur refused to acknowledge it because he couldn’t let himself fall.

Trust no one.

That was one of his shatterproof rules. He shouldn’t give himself away too much. He should know how to control himself or else he would be hurt in the end.

But in spite of that, a part of him wanted to believe in Alfred. There was something about him that made everything he said sound genuine. Believable. Trustworthy.

All these thoughts conflicted in his mind.

_No, no, no, no._

Fighting and fighting and fighting until confusion ensued.

He had to get rid of these toxic thoughts before they took full control. He should be cleaning his workspace. It had to be spotless for a brand new day. He brought the paint brushes and pencils back to the drawers, the scratch papers to the trash bin. He collected the empty paint tubes scattered on the floor.

And hesitated.

A nasty thought crossed his mind. Temptation surged within him.

He studied the sharp corners of the paint tubes. Another swirl of confusion clouded his head. Confusion caused by none other than himself.

And for that, he should be punished.

He hadn’t done it for months. The scars from last time were barely visible. He knew it was wrong, but he longed for the feeling to course through him again. He _needed_ it. There were practical alternatives. He knew them by heart but doing the real act is entirely different. He thought about it for days. Alfred didn’t say a word; he simply understood why Arthur was snapping rubber bands on his wrists lately.

But Arthur wanted to feel something stronger. The _real_ sensation.

If he did it, Kiku wouldn’t be happy. What would Alfred say once he found out?

But they wouldn’t know, would they?

He needed to feel something before he went completely numb. It made him feel unreal and he feared it the most.

It was better to feel hurt than nothing at all.

The ice-cold, pointed tin began slicing random red rivers on his skin. There was no pattern or direction, not the typical barcode lines. He continued, burying it deep wherever it landed till he felt the heat spreading through his ears and his cheeks. His heartbeat caught a faster pace with every gash.

He stopped to look at his work. Rough, scarlet strokes on chalk-white canvas.

Holding a sense of accomplishment, he pulled the sleeves of his cardigan to his palms. 

He didn’t mind the pain. After all, pain is a sign of life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes hello readers. I am alive and writing. I’m sorry if it takes me months to update. Real life and other shit. 
> 
> Thank you for waiting! Did you believe that this would still be updated one day? Lol. Smut and lots of domestic fluff to make up for the hiatus. 
> 
> I thought I should tell you now that Arthur has Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD) and other co-morbid conditions. I didn’t intend him to fall under any category as much as possible, but some of his future behavior may not match his canon traits at some point. I am no expert in psychology and I am sorry for any inaccuracies and misrepresentations. 
> 
> Can you see where this is going? I’ll be sure to put warnings when the scene calls for them. There will be an exciting adventure and plot twist next chapter! Hint: the beach. c: 
> 
> I prefer longer updates because they’ll make less sense if I post them bit by bit. I don’t want to break the flow, so I take time to finish an update. What do you think?
> 
> See you next time!


	9. Whirlwind Fall

Arthur drove like a drunken teenager, challenging Feliciano’s driving skills (Alfred noted for future reference should he and Ludwig run out of topics for conversation). He took the wheel heedlessly, making the red Mini Cooper swerve and zoom past the south-bound cars on the high-speed lane, ignoring Alfred’s discomfort.

Alfred drove with him before and the experiences were far from nerve-wracking. In fact, Arthur never gave a fuss dropping him off to work each time the train system was jammed despite his house clothes and bed hair. ~~~~

Was it his revenge for prodding him to go to the beach with their friends?

Alfred silently complimented the convertible for making it this far and prayed it would survive longer. He couldn’t remember praying this hard before. Retrieving a bag of chips from the backseat, he scrutinized the amount of baggage they brought along with them.

“How could you pack that much? It’s just a weekend trip,” he asked. “Look at my light packing.” He pointed at the small schoolbag as if Arthur had extra eyes on the back of his head.

Arthur held his indifference. Leave it to Alfred to complain about trivial things. “Never mind ‘light packing’ if it meant forgetting your own underwear,” he replied. “Check your bag.”

Alfred spoke no more. He needed time to get a good comeback and redeem himself.

With Arthur commencing a race between their friends, they were sure to reach their destination earlier than expected. Assuming he would spare the two of them from Death’s visit.

Alfred borrowed his camera. Most of the recent shots were his, which he found genuinely flattering. They were as impressive as Arthur’s commissioned works – with angles captured in all the right places, telling a story as a whole – that he almost mistook himself for a professional model. They even made it in his blog lately and earned him hundreds of followers every week. Curious people kept asking about Arthur’s new frequent subject, unfailing to make both of them blush.

He played around with it to get his mind off of Arthur’s driving. His boyfriend shoved the camera away whenever the lens focused on him. Arthur despised having his face taken and that was why Alfred was so happy about his wallpaper: a candid shot of him, grinning. Alfred kept it from him for days, but he found out eventually and demanded it be taken down. Naturally, Alfred wouldn’t. The argument died when he took a selfie on Arthur’s phone and told him to do whatever he wanted with his face, vandalize it or what, he didn’t care. He called quits.

They approached stationary traffic that seemed to stretch until the next town. Their friends caught up not too far behind. It gave Alfred more time to observe his boyfriend.

The sun hung high and bright in the sky, throwing radiant beams on Arthur’s skin and light golden hair, the shade that Alfred so admired and envied. He was delighted when Arthur brought it back after changing its color thrice the last two weeks.

And then there were his aviators. Why did he have to look so irresistibly good with that pair of sunglasses? It was unfair to steal Alfred’s attention from the magnificent view of nature surrounding them.

Unaware of Alfred’s racing thoughts, Arthur tapped the steering wheel as he sang along to the song on the radio:

_I got a bulletproof heart_   
_You got a hollow point smile_   
_Me and your runaway scars,_   
_Got a photograph dream on the getaway mile._   
  
_Let's blow a hole in this town_   
_And do our talking with a laser beam._   
_Gunning out of this place_   
_In a bullet's embrace_   
_Then we'll do it again._

His London burr weaved through the words, melding with Gerard Way’s accent. Alfred watched with a wide smile.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Alfred looked away, failing to get rid of his smile. He always listened when Arthur sang in the shower – his voice was Alfred’s favorite soundtrack. Despite a million differences setting them apart, they found a common ground in music and certain personalities (which gave him a reason to tease Arthur with his not-so-secret crush on Sid Vicious).

“Can we stop by the next McDonald’s?”

“We just stopped by Friendly’s a while ago.”

“That was _three hours ago_.”

Arthur let silence answer for him.

“Please?” Alfred said. “I’ll buy you Happy Meal, just don’t let me starve. Please?”

His boyfriend laughed harder than he should have. That killed him. “Oh, Alfred Foster Jones, how are you even real?”

☆

To Alfred’s relief, they arrived unscathed.

After heading straight to the guest house they rented for the weekend, they had a little game of beach football (Alfred insistently called it ‘soccer’, but everyone objected, much to his dismay). They teamed up into groups of five, the great shore unleashing the football enthusiasts in them. The game lasted for more than half an hour and resulted to a satisfying draw. No rematch was requested this time around.

The ocean soon grasped their attention. Gilbert and Elizaveta splashed through the glittering waters, followed by Ludwig and Feliciano, catching the brilliant rays of the late afternoon light. Meanwhile, Berwald and Tino rented a boat and rowed far across the vast tranquility, enticing Alfred to take Arthur by the hand and drag him where the white sand met the lulling tides.

“Aww, look at them, they’re so cute!” Alfred pointed, making that goofy fanboy face of his. He watched as Tino effortlessly propelled the boat like a pro. “Can we go boating too?”

Arthur frowned. “I don’t think that’s a good idea right now, Al,” he said. Letting go of Alfred’s hand, he slipped his hands inside the pocket of his jacket.

“How about a swim?”

Arthur shook his head.

Alfred relied on his puppy dog pout, but even that didn’t work. He could see Arthur’s fists clenching and unclenching underneath his pocket, as well as the regret in his eyes, as if coming along was the worst decision he’d made in years.

He let it pass. Maybe Arthur was just tired; it was a long drive after all.

Since it was the last idea Arthur didn’t decline, they joined their friends hovered around the bonfire and watched the yellow ball of light slowly drifting through the smooth blanket of waters. As the sunlight touched the fine sand underneath their feet, they busied themselves setting up for barbecue. Arthur exempted himself from helping with the preparations. He didn’t want it to end up in a disaster like last time.

“How’s your band coming along, Al?” Mathias asked, sitting by the fire and to pass around marshmallows on sticks.

“Lazily,” Alfred replied before stuffing the white roll of fluff in his mouth. “I’ve been composing, though,” he continued. “I play my songs to Arthur and ask him what he thinks of them, but he always falls asleep halfway.” He feigned a disappointed look on the Brit sitting next to him.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur said. Blushing as he smiled, he hid his face on his boyfriend’s broad shoulder.

Alfred’s heart melted quicker than the marshmallows they stoked by the fire. He locked his arm around Arthur’s and placed a tender kiss on the top of his head.

As bottles of beers and boxes of cigarettes were distributed, the sing-along started with Antonio bringing out his guitar. He strummed and chanted:

_I had a dream so big and loud_   
_I jumped so high I touched the clouds_   
_Wo-oah-oah-oah-oah-oh_

They sang back, echoes supporting Antonio’s upbeat choice. 

_I stretched my hands out to the sky_   
_We danced with monsters through the night_   
_Wo-oah-oah-oah-oah-oh_

_I'm never gonna look back_   
_Woah, never gonna give it up_   
_No, please don’t wake me now_

Their voices blended together for the chorus. Letting music carry them away, they lend an ear on the elated vibrations becoming one, and brushed aside their discordant melodies to celebrate this moment of timeless love and friendship. It was their first time together at the beach, hopefully not the last, and the waves had washed away all the worries in the world, making it one of the best days of their lives.

A nice barbecue dinner followed the spontaneous sing-along as the early swimmers were summoned back to the shore (none of them spoke of it, but everyone was thankful they had something edible for the night).

While the others plunged into the ocean, Arthur sat under the shade of a palm tree with Alfred’s guitar, studying the play of light and shadows against the sand. He took his time looking at the splendid panorama before him, a refreshing sight from the perpetual high-rise buildings and long traffic back in the city.

Elizaveta approached him. He probably caught her eye just sitting around and watching the rest of them from a distance. Tiny beads of saltwater trailed down her long, caramel-brown hair and navy blue bikini that revealed her voluptuous figure.

“Arthur, are you okay?” she asked. The smile on her face evanesced into a tinge of worry. “You’re sweltering! Why don’t you take your jacket off?”

Arthur’s fingers immediately fastened around the cuffs of his jacket, as if she was about to rip it off. “I-I’m fine! Absolutely fine. Thanks.”

Alfred took the chance to sit by his side. He remembered Arthur whining about his pale complexion and silently questioned why he wouldn’t grasp the perfect time to bask under the sun. The seaside was a rare destination after all. But he knew better than telling him what to do.

“Hey.”

“Hey yourself.”

“You sure you don’t want to go for a swim tonight?” Alfred asked, tucking his knees closer to his chest.

“Absolutely sure,” his boyfriend said outright, his moderate plucking picking up speed. “Swim along if you want to, go ahead. I’ll be right here.”

But he didn’t. Instead, he got to his feet without a saying another word and walked the other direction, farther and farther away….

Arthur watched from his seat while the other started picking at seashells and starfishes, seeing his silhouette turn to him once in a while. He stretched his sleeves to his palms.

He needed a time on his own to tune out of his surroundings. He shuffled the songs on his playlist, stepping into solitude as his friends happily shared the moment’s bliss. His fingers fiddled with the guitar strings as a new track began, attempting to play it by ear. He stood up, leaning on the sturdy bark of the tree, and hummed softly.

_High dive into frozen waves where the past comes back to life_   
_Fight fear for the selfish pain, it was worth it every time_   
_Hold still right before we crash ‘cause we both know how this ends_   
_A clock ticks 'til it breaks your glass and I drown in you again_

Discomfort built up in his chest as his friends flocked around him, but he continued.

_‘Cause you are the piece of me I wish I didn't need  
Chasing relentlessly, I still fight and I don't know why_

Alfred was with him once again, standing close before him and listening as if his voice was the only music in his ears.

_If our love is tragedy, why are you my remedy?  
If our love's insanity, why are you my clarity?_

_Why are you my clarity?_

A glass seemed to set Arthur apart from his audience, with Alfred as the sole exception. He was with the person he wanted the most and he was singing his heart out for him.

Time stood still for Alfred as a fluent succession of chords accompanied his lover’s husky voice, a seamless harmony hitting the high notes. Their eyes met until the song ended, the lingering spark of connection saying more than what words could ever express.

☆

The two of them traded Alfred’s guitar for a bottle of whisky, leaving their friends behind who were mumbling the first lines of _We Are Young_ while they headed along to trace the shoreline, hand in hand. Most tourists had come and go with the summer solstice, giving away the beach for them to explore.

Incredibly happy to have Arthur beside him, Alfred showed him what he did while walking alone. They had a little competition on picking and collecting the more colorful seashells. Arthur let himself lose to Alfred, listening as the other bragged and held the winning display on his slightly bigger palm.

Clouds scattered above their heads like cotton candies floating in the sky as the sun spilled its final colors. The warm and playful breeze fumbled their hair and whispered to their ears. Looking over the extent of footprints, Arthur reached inside his pocket and lit a cigarette.

Alfred swiped it from his hand and stole the first drag.

“That’s bad for your health,” Arthur said.

“Says Arthur Kirkland who smokes two packs a day,” Alfred released the fume from his mouth as he spoke.

“I’m a special case.” Arthur chuckled. He took the stick from Alfred and inhaled deeply. “They’re medication.”

“Right.”

They stopped and gazed at the perfectly serene scenery. How wonderful it would be to wake up to this view every day. But in hindsight, it would only be picture-perfect if they had each other.

Alfred wanted to ask what was wrong. Arthur was acting like he wasn’t there at all; he could barely feel his presence all day. The gazebo at the end of the boardwalk gave him a brilliant idea that might help him with his troubled thoughts. He grabbed Arthur’s hand until they reached the white edifice.

From his phone emerged the sound of saxophone, piano, and violins, sparing Arthur’s questions as the two of them came chest to chest. They reveled in the calmness, slow dancing and sharing the bottle of whisky, leaving the need of words to the symphonies of the ocean side.

“Make me special,” Alfred whispered; his voice honeyed against Arthur’s ear. Their foreheads touched when he slipped his arms around his lover’s neck. “Tell me a secret. I’ll tell you one.”

The quartet composition faded to an end, followed by a heartfelt nocturne. Arthur waited and held their gaze. Alfred took a prolonged deep breath.

“One of my childhood dreams is to be friends with a whale,” he confessed. “And I haven’t given up yet.”

The low walls of the gazebo resounded with laughter. This game must be played more frequently if that would make Alfred spill his silliest secrets.

“Your turn,” Alfred said. The way the apples of his cheeks surfaced was making Arthur want to pinch them.

He took his time, shifting his weight from his left foot to the right, and back. He took a long swig of whisky and swayed with Alfred once more.

“I have no fucking idea whether I’m a Catholic or a Protestant,” he told the ceiling.

Alfred laughed with him.

“I’m not even sure if I believe in God at all,” he continued. “I can hardly remember the last time I prayed or went to church…” He was aware of his blithering, but he let his mouth express his train of thoughts.

“…I didn’t believe in miracles...”

A short pause. Alfred led him through the fluttering music, his feet lightly tapping the pavement.

“…But that was until I met you.”

Nervous laughter escaped Arthur’s lips. He regretted his words as soon as he said them aloud. Immediate fear crashed over him that he felt the urge to pull Alfred into a tight hug, burying his face deep on the crook of his neck. Rendered speechless by his consequent gestures, Alfred could only envelope Arthur in his arms.

Another voiceless song filled the long stretches of silence, taking them into its infinite chains of notes. Alfred cradled Arthur’s face in his hands, relishing the sunset colors setting his eyes ablaze. His fingertips tenderly stroked the outline of his handsome face, comprehending the unimaginable reality of having Arthur in his life. He smiled.

“I’m in love with you,” he said without breaking eye contact, confessing to Arthur’s soul. He repeatedly professed his love between kisses. “…I’m in love with you, Arthur. Nothing can change that.”

_Even if you won’t acknowledge it, even if you won’t say it back._

Alfred wanted to say those words for his heart could no longer contain them. He wanted to say them regardless of Arthur’s response, although in the back of his mind was a hint of hope that Arthur felt the same.

Their lips touched once more. Arthur held back his tears with the comforting softness of Alfred’s lips infused with traces of liquor, smoke, and sweets. The air was filled with their delighted sighs, their heads tilting in different angles as they tasted each other. Alfred smiled into the kiss, his hands finding their way behind Arthur’s head and tangling into his hair. Arthur was giving all he had and that alone was enough for him. His heart leapt with irrevocable joy.

Eventually, they noticed the shower of dry petals and leaves around them. Thinking it was a quick illusion they shared, Alfred and Arthur looked around to find a party of their friends standing frozen like grinning statues behind them, their arms suspended in the air after being caught in the act.

How long had they been there? Sneaky bastards.

They cheered in unison.

“Just get married already!” Gilbert shouted, throwing the last fistful of wilted confetti.

Arthur stuck his middle finger in the air.

☆ 

“Lovely sunset. I love it.”

Not to mention the longest he’d ever witnessed, but Arthur meant his compliment. “Can we go now?”

He found himself on top of a cliff minutes after their privacy was invaded by their intoxicated friends. Despite looking over the natural splendor and being on top of the world (like how Alfred called it), he honestly felt trapped being lead to it, just how he was convinced to go to the beach for the weekend. He had wanted to consult Kiku first before making up his mind, but unfortunately, his therapist had already gone with his boyfriend for a short trip abroad, as Kiku said during their last meeting.

He and Alfred watched the sky turn into pastel swirls of lavender, pink, and power blue from the strong patters of red, yellow, and orange. The weather revealed a surprising change of mood as well. A handful of distant lightning bolts and thunderclaps accompanied the darkening sky, giving away hints of harmless, passing rain.

Alfred seemed to show interest in becoming a human lightning rod. He squeezed Arthur’s shaking hand before running towards the edge of the cliff. Arms extended in the air, he laughed.

“Come here!” he yelled.

He always wanted to go cliff diving, but Arthur avoided the waters like a plague. Could it be that he didn’t know how to swim? A jump wouldn’t hurt, would it? Besides, Alfred was a hero. What kind of hero couldn’t protect their beloved from danger?

“Alfred, this isn’t funny,” Arthur said, not moving an inch where Alfred left him.

“What?” Alfred asked, waving his arms above his head.

“J-Just stop. Get away from there, okay?” Arthur stomped his feet. “Stop acting like some child. This isn’t funny!”

A naughty smile played on Alfred’s lips.

“Alfred.”

“Oh, come on, Artie. What could go wrong?” he asked and faced the beautifully setting sun. The strong wind made his hair stand in all directions. He kept his eyeglasses inside his shorts pocket. “I’ll leave after you come over. The view is sooo much lovelier here! Deal?”

Arthur shook his head.

“Please?”

Mumbling begrudgingly under his breath, Arthur took his time walking like an infant taking his first steps. He stopped when he was inches behind Alfred.

“There you go. See? Nothing went wrong.”

“Now what?”

The next flash of lightning made Arthur’s heart jump out of his chest. He felt Alfred clasp their hands together.

“Now…” Alfred said. “We jump!”

Thunder roared overhead as Alfred sailed into the air with Arthur.

“ALFREEEEEED—!”

A great wave devoured them, washing the unspeakable fear in Arthur’s eyes before Alfred had the chance to catch it. Anger and panic incited Arthur to struggle helplessly in an attempt to push aside dizziness that was slowly embracing him. He tried to swim up to the surface faster than Alfred did, but his efforts were futile. His heart contracted with the thought of the waters unleashing its wrath, consuming him into oblivion. He drifted deeper, slipping into the abyss of unconsciousness until a pair of hands found him and eased him up to the surface.

Alfred’s laughter faintly reverberated in his ears. They paddled against the current, the ruthless waves slapping their faces. Arthur flailed against his hold and fought for air.

“Relax, man, I got y—!”

Feeling the last ounce of strength leave him, Arthur sunk back underneath. Alfred caught him abruptly, letting out another hearty laugh.

“Hey, Artie.”

He didn’t reply.

Refusing to believe his lack of response, Alfred shook him gently and called out, “Arthur?”

Arthur’s eyes remained closed. His lips were starting to have a pale, bluish tinge.

This could be a stupid prank. Arthur loved kidding around more than he did. This was a stupid, lousy prank Arthur set to make fun of his feelings. Alfred would make him pay for this.

“Hey, stop it,” Alfred snapped, his nails digging into the fabric of Arthur’s jacket as he unwittingly tightened his grip around the other’s arms. “Stop it now, hey!”

Trembling fingers pushed away the strands of light hair covering the face of the unresponsive man. His head only rolled to his side. “Shit! Arthur, wake up!”

Frustration smashed him, sweeping away his patience. He shook him again and lost his slippery hold, sending Arthur back to the depths of the ocean. “No!”

He dove down, relief coming as he scooped him back to his arms again. Realizing his hopeless monologue, he brought Arthur on his back, wrapped his arms around his neck, and paddled back to the shore. His pulse was slow and weak against Alfred’s back, but it was there. 

Why didn’t he listen when Arthur told him not to force him into the waters? His stubbornness just threw their blissful moment away and it was unfair for Arthur to suffer his share of consequences.

Alfred had only become aware of the air cutting through his skin like fine daggers ripping his every pore. He paid little attention as the need to revive Arthur became urgent by the second. His eyes stung with every pump of his fists against Arthur’s chest. Tears and saltwater streamed down his face in heavy droplets, although it was hard to tell them apart. His heart sank each time he placed his mouth on his, only to receive no response.

Two sets of rescue breaths later, Arthur finally showed signs of consciousness. He coughed, expelling water from his mouth, and sat upright, his palms pushing against the sand.

“OHMYGODYOUSCAREDME!” Alfred threw himself around Arthur as all his concerns lay to rest, but only for a short time after a pair of protective hands forcefully shoved him away.

Shaky, audible breaths left Arthur’s mouth. His wide eyes attempted to recognize the blurry face before him, confused and terrified, struggling to make sense of reality. Where was he? What happened?

Alfred watched with him a pained expression.

“Arthur, I—” he said, his quivering voice betraying him. “Arthur, I-I’m sorry…”

He raised a tentative hand to be deflected by Arthur. In an attempt to flee from Alfred’s reach, Arthur fell as soon as he stood up, the darkness claiming him again. Alfred swooped down and caught him before he could fall to the sand. He held him close, resting his cheek on Arthur’s forehead.

Surmounted by guilt, Alfred wanted to throw himself from a cliff, never to resurface this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH NOES ALFRED WHAT HAVE YOU DONE
> 
> What could go wrong????? Everything! Arthur already told you not to do it but you still did. Poor, poor bby. ;A;
> 
> Mentioned songs:
> 
> Bulletproof Heart by My Chemical Romance (suited for road trips imho), Best Day of My Life by American Authors (you’ve probably heard this a million times already), We Are Young by fun. (this one too), and Clarity by Zedd ft. Foxes(the male acoustic cover is divine, I swear. ;u; And if there’s a song that can condense Alfred and Arthur’s relationship in this story, THIS IS IT.)
> 
> Whoa. We just finished the happy/fluffy part of the story. About time we take a peek at Arthur’s past. Who’s up for a tragic back story? :3c


	10. His Story

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We hereby acknowledge the presence of the UK brothers:  
> Allistor (Scotland)  
> Patrick (Northern Ireland)  
> Dylan (Wales) 
> 
>  
> 
> Warning: mentions of death and self-harm

**Fifteen years ago**

_For Arthur, summer had always been the best season. At this time of year, his family would spend a couple of weeks together to explore the most splendid beaches outside the country. When he was eight, his father took him sailing._

_Arthur’s tireless persistence eventually won his father’s attention. His brothers might take after their father more than he did, striking physical resemblances and all, but he favored his youngest more than anyone else._

_Deep in thought, Arthur stared at the expanse of the glimmering waters before him, the French Pacific islands forming giant silhouettes in the distance._

“Ça va?” _His dad asked._

_Arthur blinked in surprise._ “Oui, ça va.”

“Où est Francis?”

_He shrugged._ “Je ne sais pas…” _he said._ “Il a dit qu’il sortait avec ses parents aujourd’hui, c’est tout.”

_Francis was his only playmate around. They would never bother talking to each other if it wasn’t for their parents being good friends, having vacation houses next to each other in Cannes. It so happened this summer that both families planned to spend a few weeks in the same island outside the coasts of Europe._

_His father was about to speak when Arthur asked,_ “On peut parler en Anglais maintenant?”

_He laughed and rumpled his hair._

_“Francis makes fun of my French. All the time.” Arthur pouted, his face falling behind folded arms._

_Why couldn’t everyone speak English instead?_ _The boy sighed and studied the mild waves rocking the sailboat. Despite Francis’ regular teasing and overall annoying presence,_ _h_ _is company was more bearable than his brothers’._

_He took his mind off the thought and drank in the scenic sight stretching before him. He loved being alone with his father. If he was left at the house with his brothers, surely, he would be the center of their taunting, the victim of their rowdy games, like always –_ _throwing him to seven feet-deep pools when he was still learning how to swim, hurling pebbles at him, calling him Fatty, those typical brotherly games._

_Arthur couldn’t understand why they despised him so. Their parents barely had time for them, and when they did, his brothers would be on their best behavior, making it hard to imagine the things they did to their youngest brother in their absence. But Arthur kept quiet about it. The mere thought of going out as a family was another reason to look forward to summer and it made him feel better._

_Their moment of peace was interrupted by a sharp thunderclap. Everyone predicted it was a good day for sailing; no one mentioned a possible drastic change in weather, or knew about it in hindsight. Seeing the darkening sky and the sea’s growing rage, they thought it best to go back._

_B_ _efore they could leave their spot in the vast sea, Arthur heard a loud thud and a strangled yell. The next second, he found his father on the floor, writhing in pain and cradling his head with his hands._

_“Dad! What’s wrong? Daddy, please tell me!” Arthur was on his knees, his pleas remained unheard as his father moaned incoherently and lay motionless._

_Overwhelmed with panic, Arthur paced the boat, trying to figure out what to do. What was happening? He couldn’t bear listening to his father’s agonized screaming. They were in the middle of the sea with an incoming storm and there was no one to help. It was his fault; he shouldn’t have forced his dad to go sailing._

_It was his fault._

_The boat fell silent once again. His father had stopped moving, his eyes closed. Did he fall asleep? Arthur couldn’t see clearly through his tears. He could only cry and shiver uncontrollably, losing consciousness to the continuous roaring of thunder overhead._

_The following events were washed away from his memory. His next recollection was waking up with the sand underneath him, his mother’s arms providing the warmth he needed. Blurred images of Allistor, Patrick, and Dylan greeted him upon opening his eyes, almost undistinguishable with worry and despair on their faces._

_“D-Did you find Daddy?” Arthur managed to utter through chattering teeth._

_His mother’s arms tightened around him as a response. His heart shattered into pieces at the sound of his mother’s weeping, her tearstained face pressed against his cheek._

_It was all his fault._

☆

_Gertrude Jacobs-Kirkland lived the life most women aspired to have – maintaining a successful career and a happy marriage, all while mothering four wonderful boys. Her dream-like life continued thriving until the summer her husband passed away from aneurism while sailing, and it was then when she watched her world slowly fall apart._

_Coming home from the tragic vacation, she and her children were welcomed with the most disturbing silence. Things weren’t the way they were before, and would never be again. The boys struggled to cope, her youngest one taking the hardest blow._

_For months, Arthur had been a walking empty shell. He shut his emotions and rejected help, kept his distance from everyone. Mrs. Kirkland thought he needed more time to cope and be back to his normal self again, but as months passed by, he showed little sign of recovery._

_Deciding he couldn’t go on that way, she sought help from a therapist.The post-traumatic stress was undeniable. He was irritable and even more sensitive than before; he complained about having headaches all the time and used this excuse to avoid going to school._

_The doctor handed him a notebook. “Write about what you feel,” he said, looking at him through earnest eyes. “Or draw about it. It helps.”_

_Mrs. Kirkland watched as Arthur took it in his hands and said nothing else._

_He had a strong affinity for art. Maybe this could bring his interest and old life back._

_A few weeks later, Mrs. Kirkland entered his room to check on him. It was the longest time since he stopped having night terrors that occurred on a regular basis. She would wake up in the middle of the night with Arthur screaming in his room, and she would be by his side to assure him it was just a bad dream and put him back to sleep once he was at peace._

_A faint smile touched her lips when she found him clinging to his teddy bear, the one his father bought him. She smiled even more at the memory of four-year-old Arthur saying ‘please’ very nicely until his father finally took him to the toy store.  He didn’t feel the need to cry his eyes out and scream like other children. He was her little angel._

_She sat at the edge of the bed, smoothing the hair on his forehead. Her heart broke at the sight of him, so fragile and unsure of his place in the world, unaware of his worth. If she could only tell him how happy she was to have him in her life. She regretted her failure to give him the attention he needed, but was willing to make up for it._

_Before leaving, she saw and opened the notebook on his nightstand. It was empty._

☆

_During that same year, the Kirklands decided it was time to sort out the things their late father left behind._

_Still hesitant to take part in this, Arthur slowly entered the room to find his brothers, ready to flee if so they wished. They stopped talking the moment he set forth._

_“Keep your hands off of Father’s things, you black sheep.” Allistor said. “He’d still be with us if it weren’t for_ you _!”_

_It was a common fact that Allistor was the most emotional among them, the one who got carried away very easily. Arthur knew it best._

_“Allistor, stop it!” Dylan said, standing between them. “Nobody wanted it to happen. Don’t take it against him! It wasn’t his fault!”_

_Allistor had none of it. He would say what he wanted, what Arthur ought to know._

_“Yes, it was!” he continued. “You know it was!”_

_While Dylan tried comforting their younger brother, Patrick called their mother to tell her about the brewing situation. Arthur remained rooted in his place, closed his eyes, took deep breaths, and counted. Allistor let his emotions turn into words, endless chains of hatred and anger against Arthur’s ears._

_“Shut up!” Arthur finally yelled back, hands covering his ears. “Shut up! Shut up!”_

_He could take so much until for the first time since the funeral, he broke down._

_Bursting into tears, he marched out of the room, but the taunting and hurtful accusations trailed behind. He found himself in the kitchen, breathless, breaking down, and brandishing a knife before his brother, his own flesh and blood._

_“Go ahead!” His older brother provoked him even more, eyes brimming with fury. “Prove to everyone what you really are!”_

_It was too much. Arthur could hardly think through anguish and tears, missing the sight of Patrick and their mother rushing down the staircase to stop the commotion. But it was too late. Time stopped as Arthur plunged the knife to his own stomach, sinking slowly into the ground, encircled by a pool of blood._

_Maybe everyone would be happier without him._

☆

**Present**

Alfred struggled to find out what to do with himself after the ordeal. He couldn’t tell what he found more disturbing: seeing Arthur fall unconscious or watching him jolt awake from horrible memories triggered by the traumatic experience.

He immediately appeared at Arthur’s side when he tossed and turned and hollered in bed, wanting so badly to wrap his arms around him and tell him he was safe, safe with him, but held back as he was afraid Arthur would act differently as he did at the shore. He helped Arthur calm down and catch his breath with utmost care, which he figured the best way to go.

It took Arthur less time to recognize where he was and what happened. Finding himself back at the guest house, he reckoned someone must have carried him from the shore, changed his dripping clothes, and tucked him in bed. A plain white shirt replaced his jacket, exposing his hideous arms for the world to see, something that required an explanation from both sides, but neitherof them dared to say a single word.

Arthur needed someone to listen as fragments of the past begged for release, and Alfred stayed by his side through it all. Alfred’s chest tightened with remorse, learning what Arthur had been carrying with him the last fifteen years.

“If I knew about it, I wouldn’t’ve—,” Alfred trailed off, running out of words to say. His next words came as a whisper. “I’m so sorry…”

“I know.” Arthur sank back to the pillows and turned to his side, still shivering under the quilt.

Alfred listened to his calm breathing, the only sound existing inside the room. The full moon was a bright disk in the starless sky, shedding light through the glass door.

“It’s not your fault.”

“Maybe not.”

Alfred took the preceding silence as a cue to leave. He could count the moments in his life when he ran out of words to say, and when they happened, he would find comfort in music. He sat at the balcony with his guitar, plucking it gently while humming to himself. The notes streamed into the night, crashing against the waves and the sea breeze, softly, softly, letting it take him to sleep. He would wake up next morning and whatever happened this day would dissolve into nothing but a bad dream. 

But the bad dream is what we call life, and nothing will be the same between him and Arthur. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is anybody still reading this rubbish or am I left alone to my lousy ideas? 
> 
> Yes, nothing will ever be the same anymore after we take a glimpse of Arthur’s past. (It gets worse). I hate portraying Arthur’s brothers as monsters, but that was how they were looking back to their childhood. Don’t worry, they won’t be as horrible next time.


	11. Pandora’s box

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: minor character death and panic attacks

The ride home resounded in silence. Alfred took the wheel and opened mindless conversations in an attempt to keep Arthur from brooding at the window. They took the same route, retraced the trail they ventured on their way to the beach. Yet, Arthur seemed too absorbed with the identical white picket fences and manicured lawns to keep the conversation flowing.

“We’re stopping for a while,” said Alfred. “Do you want to get anything?”

It started raining again. Arthur’s eyes followed the trail of raindrops on the glass. He shook his head. That was when Alfred surrendered to the stillness of their company and figured the trip robbed them of energy.

The next morning, when the faint sunlight was only starting to paint the room, Arthur woke up from the biting cold, shivering beside his source of warmth. He stared at the blank ceiling, unable to go back to sleep.

He turned to Alfred. He was sleeping so peacefully, so distant and oblivious of the waking world. He lay on his stomach, one arm dangling off the bed, and his face buried on the pillow they shared the night before.

This person was the only one who could make Arthur break his own rules. Would it be a good idea to attach himself that way? Arthur had started opening up to him…

It had been five weeks and two days, Arthur counted. Constantly, Alfred looked at him as if he was seeing all the good things in him, and none of the hideous ones. How did he always make him feel so loved? How did he know the words Arthur wanted to hear? He expected Alfred to take them back, but he didn’t. And how did Arthur respond? He simply gave him a kiss. It almost broke his heart he couldn’t say those words in return.

He’d been through enough to know that he couldn’t believe what he heard because it would only hurt him in the end. He had told himself before: if Alfred would get to know him more, he would find Arthur undesirable. He would get tired of him eventually, and leave. Nothing would change this. Arthur stretched his fingers and smoothed his hair. Alfred’s lips curled slightly.

“No, you don’t,” whispered Arthur.

Those were the only words he could say in return.

He got up and grabbed his pill bottle, heading to the living room. Hesitantly, he reached for the phone. He needed Kiku. He needed to tell him what happened. Kiku would know what to do; he was the only one who could put Arthur’s mind at ease. He had been scheduled to return with Heracles yesterday. But Arthur couldn’t reach him. He tried calling his office, and his secretary answered.

“Hello?”

Kiku’s secretary was a cheerful lady. In fact, Arthur never saw her frown, so it bothered him when she sounded so somber. The reason concerned Kiku. When she informed him why Kiku wasn’t responding, Arthur questioned his consciousness, whether he was really awake or not. But he was. What he heard was true. His knees felt weak, and his hands shook uncontrollably. He had to lean against the wall or else he would fall. The phone slipped through his fingers and crashed on the floor.

☆

Minutes later, Alfred stirred and found himself alone in bed. He got up in search for Arthur and was glad to catch him in the living room. The news was on. The reporter was announcing a plane crash that happened last night. No survivors, she said.

Arthur paced around the room, biting his knuckles. The color of his face seemed to fade as he listened intently. Alfred swore he could almost hear his heart pounding.

“Arthur? What is it?” he asked, making his presence known.

It took a while before Arthur answered. He sat on the couch, closed his eyes, and swallowed. He laced his fingers together as if praying, and rested his forehead against them. His lips trembled as he uttered with difficulty. “Kiku…”

Sitting beside him, Alfred asked, “Kiku? What about him?”

Arthur took one shaky breath before whispering – Alfred would think it was a trick of his imagination. “Kiku… He – He’s gone, Alfred.”

☆

There had been a thin line between friendship and professionalism in Arthur and Kiku’s relationship. Arthur was having a difficult time coping with his death because his only anchor was gone.

The funeral was a simple affair. Kiku’s immediate family sat together and took turns with their eulogy. His sisters donned kimonos and his brothers wore suits. They received condolences from his friends and colleagues who were also dressed in black, a white handkerchief dabbing their tear-stained faces. Arthur went as a close friend. So did Alfred, but he was really there for Arthur.

He reacted differently towards Kiku’s death, or perhaps Alfred expected differently. He grieved, but he didn’t cry. It was as if he shut his feelings completely. Alfred assumed it was only a matter of time before he absorbed the truth.

The following days showed no progress. Arthur spaced out most of the time like his mind was traveling across another continent. His silence scared Alfred. Desperate to bring Arthur’s typical self back – his loud, snarky Arthur – Alfred attempted making small talks with the hopes of coaxing a reaction. But just like the ride from the beach, Arthur would kill the conversation and an eerie stillness would come between them.

Alfred stood outside the studio and knocked. It was ten thirty in the evening and Arthur hadn’t stepped out for hours, not even for dinner. He found him fiddling with his computer mouse, trying to find a file within the depths of his project folder.

“What is it?”

“I was wondering if you need anything.”

“No, thank you.”

“Are you sure?”

Arthur spared him a quick glance and a forced smile.“Yes.”

“Okay.” Alfred hesitated and studied his work station. Two teacups were emptied, but the sandwich he brought him that afternoon was left untouched. One too many cigarette butts lay on the ashtray.

“I’m taking these out,” he said, reaching for the teacups.

Arthur waited a minute, and muttered thanks without looking back. Before Alfred was out the door, he spoke softly, “Good night, Alfred.”

“Good night.”

Arthur had become so distant that he created a personal bubble, a shield that Alfred wasn’t allowed to enter. He was like a lonely portrait, and Alfred could do nothing but look.

☆

Alfred became very cautious with Arthur ever since the beach incident. The most important lesson was to ask questions, and this was taken to the test one night.

Once again, Alfred woke up alone. Darkness engulfed the room, accompanied by nocturnal silence. Arthur’s side of the bed was still warm, yet he was nowhere in sight. Taking small steps, Alfred crossed the room and swallowed the lump in his throat. He couldn’t explain the heaviness in his gut. Who knew what he would find?

He opened the door and caught sight of the living room. Quite relieved to find Arthur pacing around, he approached him.

“Arthur?”

His call was drowned by Arthur’s manic attempt to calm himself. Sweating and shaking and panting heavily, he reclined against the wall for support. Upon opening his eyes, he found Alfred and gasped in terror. He tried to come closer, to touch him, but Arthur shook his head and stepped back.

“Don’t be scared, Arthur. I-It’s alright, you’re with me.”

“N-No, please…”

Alfred felt a stab of pain in his chest. Deliberately, he took another step forward.

“I-It’s okay,” he said. “It’s m— Arthur!”

A great tide of panic washed away all of Alfred’s emotions as he caught Arthur before he could sink to the floor. He carried him to the couch and stayed by his side, but with enough space so that he wouldn’t be terrified once he regained consciousness.

Alfred began pacing and biting his nails. Without Arthur’s instructions, he didn’t know what to do. Should he get some water? Raid the medicine cabinet? Call an ambulance? He went to fetch a glass from the kitchen. When he came back, Arthur opened his eyes.

“How are you feeling? D-Do you need anything? Water? Do you take meds for this?” he asked. “Oh, God, please tell me.”

Alfred caught himself, figured it wouldn’t help if he acted like a nervous wreck. But to his worry, he couldn’t help firing questions. He sat beside Arthur and offered the glass of water with a trembling hand.

Arthur drank and shut his eyes, trying to concentrate on his breathing. The familiar burning sensation was slowly returning in his chest. His breathing became more erratic, making him curl onto himself and clutch his chest tightly.

“Should I – Should I call an ambulance?” asked Alfred.

Arthur shook his head. “Are you sure? What do I do?”

“Just rub my back, please.”

Alfred sat him up and placed a tentative hand on his back. Arthur’s cheek was cold and damp against his bare shoulder. Underneath the circular motions, he felt the tenseness ease gradually. After a while, Arthur told him about distractions, the techniques Kiku taught him to feel better. Alfred helped him with the breathing exercises and played soft music in his phone. Exhaustion consumed Arthur, yet he resisted sleep, so they turned on the TV in low volume. Alfred made him a cup of chamomile tea. In a few hours, the first light greeted them through the window. Realizing how much time had passed, Alfred straightened his stiff back. Arthur was fast asleep on his shoulder. Careful not to wake him up, he carried him back to bed.

☆

Despite Arthur’s reassurance, Alfred decided to stay at home. He could only imagine Arthur having those horrid attacks with no one around.

“They weren’t always that bad,” insisted Arthur. “I haven’t had them in a year.”

Whenever he had them, Arthur refused to leave the house, for fear of having difficulties escaping once they recurred. At least at home, he would be safe from public humiliation.

And so, both of them stayed home. Arthur knew perfectly well how to deal with them. He kept himself busy the whole time, juggling some computer work, his favorite TV shows, and a few chores (which, to him, were the most effective distractions). They only recurred twice – when he was lying in bed and subconsciously studying the ceiling, never again in the middle of the night, thank God. He rushed to the bathroom once nausea settled in his stomach. It was like perpetually standing at the brink of death, but the worst moment would always come to pass, and he would breathe again and stand on his two feet.

The worst moments for Alfred were watching Arthur go through all of it. He felt useless staying by Arthur’s side while seeing him struggle. He’d do anything to make them stop, naturally, but all he could really do was look him in the eyes and give reassurance that Arthur would overcome them as he did before. _Hey, Arthur. I’m not touching you, okay? I’m right here – I’m not letting you go. Take deep breaths, Arthur, there we go…_

Knowing this was all he could do about the situation tormented him. He wanted to hold him close as this was the kind of comfort he could offer, but Arthur would feel suffocated, and would flinch at his touch like it brought him unbearable pain. From what he’d witnessed before, touching him would make him feel even more agitated, and Alfred wouldn’t want things to take a turn for the worse. At the end of the day, Arthur would thank Alfred for staying with him. As exhausted as Arthur, Alfred prayed for him to be okay.

Maybe he lost perception of time, but Alfred didn’t expect the tough times to pass so quickly. With enough rest and medications, Arthur felt better. Just when he thought he could get close to Arthur as the closest star to Earth, they were having a light banter in the kitchen again.

“You seem happy,” remarked Arthur. “Did something happen at work?”

He hung around the kitchen while Alfred prepared dinner. His boyfriend gave the air of a bouncy TV chef, stirring the simmering Bolognese sauce as he hummed along to the songs on the radio. He felt indestructible when twenty one pilots played.

“Well, my contract with the coffee shop ends this month,” he said. “And my band’s back to business again. We’re playing a few gigs a couple of weeks from now!”

“Ah well done, you,” said Arthur, setting the plates and utensils on the counter. “Being a busy bee must be awfully draining.”

“A little bit of time management is the key,” Alfred said with a wink.

He presented the spaghetti Bolognese with a proud ta-da. They were having dinner again: the thought pleased Alfred. After nights of eating by himself, this was a welcomed change. He made sure to prepare the best recipes he knew to celebrate the success.

“You must be very tired,” said Arthur, twirling a few strands of pasta with his fork against the knife. “Tomorrow, I’ll make you a stack of pancakes for taking good care of me.”

Alfred blushed and he found himself grinning like an idiot. He was rendered speechless for a moment. “Aw, but you don’t have to!”

“But I insist.” Arthur pouted. “Besides, I need something to experiment on.”

“So it’s more of a cooking experiment than a thank-you gift?”

“Er, no – yes.” He laughed. How Alfred missed that sound. “But really, thank you, Alfred.”

Alfred’s heart fluttered as Arthur kissed his cheek.

“I’ll do the dishes,” he said and went away to get his meds. Arthur opened the medicine cabinet and took the bottles as he did every night. However, he swallowed four pills instead of two.

☆

Other than the pills, Arthur seemed more dependent on alcohol and cigarette. He wouldn’t let Alfred see it, but he knew. Gone were the bottles of lager that used to be in the fridge. The apartment reeked of cigarette smoke, masked with a hint of vanilla every time he went home. But Alfred didn’t say anything as Arthur was feeling better.

When Alfred arrived, Arthur was folding paper cranes on the window seat. The fading afternoon sun had created a grayscale of silhouettes out of the living room. He switched the lights on.

“Hi.”

Arthur shielded his eyes from the intrusive brightness. “Hello.”

“Did you go outside today?” Alfred asked and sat beside him.

“For a bit.”

Alfred nodded.

Arthur kept making paper cranes while they asked how each other’s day went. The little folded wonders piled up on the floor in varying sizes and striking colors, which Alfred found refreshing. The apartment’s vivid color scheme had failed to brighten the atmosphere recently.

Origami occupied most of Arthur’s time. If he wasn’t folding paper cranes, he was playing Sudoku. He didn’t bother going outside or talking to their friends as much as he did. He simply kept himself company and waited for Alfred to come home. Some nights, he would find Arthur on the window seat with a book on his lap, gazing at the black sky while snowflakes covered the city.

The phone rang, but Arthur didn’t make a move as if he heard nothing. On the contrary, the ringing resonated on Alfred’s ears like alarm bells. It had been that way for days.

“Aren’t you going to get the phone?” asked Alfred. “It’s probably your mom.”

Mrs. Kirkland called several times that week, but Arthur only answered twice.

Alfred looked at him with scrutiny, daring him to answer.

Arthur sighed and slid down his pillow. He flung his latest crane on the floor with careless effort. “Tell her I went out.”

It wasn’t the first time that Alfred would do as he asked, but he refused to argue. He stood up and answered the call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well if this isn’t a crap of an update. We’ve reached another major turn of events, with Arthur losing one of the few people he trusts — which is very unrealistic because shrinks aren’t supposed to be friends with their patients for obvious reasons. I feel terrible for coming back from hiatus with this tortuous update, honestly. It’s not the first time that I’ve had second thoughts writing another chapter. Hopefully, the next update will come sooner than this one did. Thanks for the words of encouragement. It’s nice to know that you guys are still around. Till next time!


	12. The morning after

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: mentions of past abuse

Shaking the snow off his coat, Alfred stepped into the apartment as if it was the last sanctuary from the chaotic, wintry, outside world. He whiffed the familiar scent of cinnamon, pinewood, and chamomile tea. On the couch, Arthur lay with his eyes closed. _Here comes a feeling you thought you’d forgotten,_ Vampire Weekend chanted from the record player. Home, at last.

“I’m home!”

Arthur’s eyes flickered open and sourced the voice. “Hello. You alright?”

He kissed Alfred’s cheek, which the weather had turned cold and deep pink. Putting the vinyl back to its sleeve, he turned the TV on and reclined on the couch. Alfred joined him.

“I’m – how do you say it? – knackered? There. I’m knackered,” he said, and drew a smile on Arthur’s lips. Alfred stretched out on top of him like a giant, lazy cat while a BBC news reporter gave the latest update on a Middle Eastern conflict. “The usual two-hour drive felt like forever as I was snowed in with three grumpy goblins. Oh, the horror!”

“And how was the gig? I never thought you’d run out of memes to send.”

After his contract with the coffee shop was finished, Alfred began going out of town with his band, traveling and working for hours to pay his dues. Every day was one step closer to LA. “The memes helped get rid of the nerves. You’d think I’m used to the crowds by now, but I’m not. Thanks for your participation.”

“Glad to be of service,” Arthur said. _Click, click, click,_ went the remote. His outstretched arm was mapped with paint. A trail of red dots on his wrist, a swipe of blue at the back of his hand, and little swirls of green on his fingertips. Colors were semi-permanent features of Arthur, and Alfred was happy to see them again since the past weeks’ avalanche.

“And you? How was your weekend?”

“It was good. Finished a few commissions. I also got a wedding stint in two weeks.”

“That’s great, Arthur!” Sleep was sinking into Alfred like water on sand, with Arthur patting his head and their legs hooked together.

Arthur sighed. “I miss my cat.”

Chestnut, whose framed pictures held a permanent place in Arthur’s bookcase, managed to seize his owner’s attention from time to time despite living three thousand miles away.

“I can be your pet,” Alfred offered, rubbing his nose on Arthur’s chest.

“What I need,” Arthur stroked his hair, “is a proper pet: one that doesn’t go around playing with his band and spending nights in another city.”

Alfred’s face fell in defeat. “Ouch.”

A moment passed.

“I booked the tickets today.”

“You did?”

Arthur nodded. “Flight’s on the 20th. Are you ready?”

“Hell yeah, I was born ready!”

He was not. Knots formed in his stomach while Arthur chattered about how they would spend the holidays. Their plans were becoming reality by the day. They would come to England together, and Alfred would meet Arthur’s family. For real. He half-listened to Arthur as he imagined his life back home. Arthur had three older brothers, and it scared him for some reasons. He said their relationship improved as they grew older. Had they grown overprotective? How did they usually act around Arthur’s boyfriends? How about his younger brother, Peter? What if he was a brat? Most importantly, Alfred would finally meet the face behind his mom’s phone calls. Would she look like Arthur? Would her personality match her sweet voice?

“…and then maybe we can come to France and see your brother next year?”

“Huh? Yeah, th-that sounds good.”

“Did Matthew speak French before he moved to France?”

“Yeah, he’s fluent actually. Mom, Dad, and Mattie spent a few years in Montreal before I was part of the family.”

“I see. He probably speaks to you in French, then, sometimes? And you probably don’t have a clue when he’s cursing you? Poor bloke.”

Alfred gazed at him under his lashes. He couldn’t think of a good comeback because what he said was true.

Arthur took this as a victory and finished his teasing with a smile. He grabbed his mug from the coffee table. “Do you want some tea?”

He blinked. “Yes, please.”

For the past few days, Alfred had noticed the consistent absence of alcoholic drinks in the fridge and the growing pile of teacups in the sink. He knew this shift would happen. Arthur only needed some time to go back to the person Alfred knew. If before, he seemed like a marionette doll — whose tangled strings were controlled by a sad puppeteer — it seemed like the strings had suddenly snapped because Arthur was smiling again like he really meant it. 

* * *

 

On Thursday evening, they lay idly on the couch as they waited for the pizza. With Arthur’s head on his lap, Alfred scrolled through his Vine account for them to laugh at their favorite Viners’ latest antics. The doorbell rang.

“I’ll get it.” Alfred stopped stroking Arthur’s hair and headed towards the door.

Arthur turned the DVD on.

“What are we watching tonight?” Alfred asked, placing the box of Domino’s on the coffee table.

“I asked Antonio for a zombie movie — since you’ve been making noises about it for days — and this is what he gave me.” Arthur waved the case; _[REC]_ , it said.

Alfred scrutinized the cover. “Isn’t that, like, the Spanish version of Quarantine?”

“You mean the original version.”

He threw his hands up in surrender and settled back to the couch, snuggling against Arthur.

Apparently, Arthur seemed to laugh at the things that made people scream. While his boyfriend chuckled at the characters’ occasionally absurd behaviors and reactions, Alfred drew out his phone to play Quiz Up (he’d reached Level 12 in Mario Universe, and he couldn’t wait to get a new title).

Arthur nudged him in the rib. “Why aren’t you watching?”

“I’m watching!”

“No, you’re not.“

He grabbed another slice of pizza with a shaking hand. “I-I think I like the American version better.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Shut up, Hollywood.”

He tucked his phone back in his pocket and kept his eyes on the screen, if that would please Arthur. For the next few minutes, they sat in silence and watched the characters scream, run around, and attack each other.

“Oh, look at the poor boy!” Arthur said, pointing out Alfred’s current state: tucked close to him, with his face hidden behind a throw pillow. He poked Alfred’s cheek with greasy fingertips. “Are you scared?”

Alfred felt his heart skip a beat, seeing Arthur’s lips tugging at the corners. “Fuck no, I just… No way in hell I’m scared!”

The screen went dark, showing an attic. Alfred had watched enough horror movies to know this was where The Gruesome Creature would jump into the screen.

“AAAH!”

He leaped out of his seat as Arthur clawed his shoulder with a scream. His heart was beating like it wanted to break free from his chest.

The culprit laughed and placed an affectionate kiss on his temple.

That night, they held each other to sleep. Alfred could watch horror movies over and over if that meant sleeping with Arthur’s arms around him like only the two of them existed.

* * *

 

The early morning hush sent Alfred’s floating, after-dream mind to a cottage in the middle of a forest, miles and miles away. The chorus of cars, pedestrians, and the rest of the city faded into soft echoes, filtered by the thick woods. He and Arthur had created a sphere of warmth and comfort in bed with its tangled white sheets, and their clothes on the floor. In the summer, the sun would have sent them out of bed as they dripped with sweat. But the glacial winds offered no choice other than _sleep, cuddle, sleep_.

Beside him, Arthur succumbed to the season’s spell. Alfred watched his face and the slow rising and falling of his chest under the comforter. His lips slightly parted like he was having a pleasant dream, and as if to protect it, he turned his back on Alfred.

He leaned in to kiss Arthur’s earlobe. “Morning, darling.”

That would probably get him punched and kicked out of bed, but he’d have no regrets. Hooking his leg between Arthur’s naked thighs, they fitted together like spoons. His lips traced Arthur’s neck and shoulders.

“Arthuuuur.”

Arthur seized the covers and murmured, “Alfred, ‘msleeping.”

Something had to be done to keep Arthur from oversleeping, or he’d spend the day moaning about headaches. Alfred had tried the silliest things to wake him up. One time, when he felt like Arthur was sleeping through the day, he put the radio on full volume and bounced on and around the bed – Arthur disappeared under the covers, but Alfred was yet to give up. After the song, Arthur grabbed his face, kissed him, and weighed him down by his side, saying: _go back to bed, tosser_.

“Stop that,” Arthur groaned when Alfred buried his face on the small of his back.

“But it’s time to wake up.”

Something wet and warm, like a tongue, was tracing his spine upwards; he shivered. “Stop.”

Alfred looked hurt. “Why are you acting like that? You seemed to enjoy it last night.”

He waited for a violent reaction. Five, four, three…

For all it was worth, he was reluctant about sleeping with Arthur the previous night. The last time felt like years ago, just like everything that happened before their weekend at the beach. He pictured Arthur’s face before his lips sank between his thighs. _We can stop if you don’t want to do it_.

“Twat.”

He laughed and held Arthur close. His chest was on fire. Temptation burned in his mouth as it urged him to say the three forbidden words, but he stopped himself. He was able to hold them back while he had himself inside Arthur, and he would willingly set his feelings aside to preserve this intimate sphere the morning after.

“You’re doing a very creative job killing yourself,” he teased, trying to convince Arthur to stop burying his face on the pillow. “I can see that suppressed smile from here, Mr. Kirkland.”

Arthur didn’t shift a fraction.

“Hey, stop it now.”

“C’mon, get that thing off your face.”

The grip on the pillow loosened, and Arthur stuck his tongue out at Alfred. “One day I’ll wake up first and you’ll suffer the _terrible_ consequences.”

“I’ll be looking forward to that.” Alfred gave Arthur an open-mouthed kiss and ran his hands over his slim outline.

Blood rushed all over him as their time together returned in flashes. He paid little attention to the raw patches of colors on his forearms: shades of red, purple, and pale yellow, like the colors of wine that didn’t wash out. The others were as dark as the night. His gaze averted his lover’s pronounced frame and focused on his eyes instead, which reflected the real Arthur. Words played no part in holding and exploring each other – they spoke through lips against skin and shared intimacy through movement. From the moment he went down on Arthur until they both climaxed, one thought replayed in Alfred’s head, _I only want you to be happy again, I love you, Arthur, I love you_.

Alfred crawled lower as Arthur reclined and grabbed a cigarette from the nightstand. Lazily, he dragged his fingertips over his crotch and kissed the stretch marks on his hipbone. “What did your first time feel like?”

Crossing his ankles, Arthur exhaled a cloud of smoke. The blankets wrapped around his lower half made him looked like a merman with a tail of pearl-white scales, washed away to a snow-carpeted shore. Alfred’s topics always caught him by surprise. Did he really want to know about his sex life?

“With a girl or with a guy?”

“You had sex with a girl?”

“Didn’t you?”

“Well, yeah… I did. But that was… before I discovered the truth,” Alfred said. His suddenly reddish cheeks made him look childlike. “So I’m asking about your first time with a guy. Was he your boyfriend?”

Arthur smirked, hearing a stab of jealousy on Alfred’s words. “You go first.”

“I thought I asked you the question.” Alfred stuck his tongue out.

His boyfriend chuckled. “Come on now. Be a dear and tell me about it.”

“Alright,” Alfred rolled his eyes, “It was prom night. I liked this boy for about a year at that time. I’ve been trying to make him notice me, but I wasn’t sure he’s gay. But come prom night, he was like, _‘wow, Jones, you look nice’_. I was like, _‘thanks, bro’_ , and he was like _‘wanna get out of here?’_ and the guy dumped his date – yeah, just like that! – and we found this secret place under the stage and did it. He’d never done it before, but he was hot and I told him it was the best night of my life.”

“How romantic,” Arthur cooed.

“We’ve been together since then – we kept our relationship secret. We both moved into another state after graduation, and so we grew apart,” he shrugged, “Your turn.”

Arthur smirked and had a strong drag of his cigarette; Alfred saw it shrink. “My first sex was with this guy in the football team. He wasn’t my boyfriend, no.” For a second, the swirls of smoke filled the bedroom. “And I never wanted to do it with him in the first place either.”

His eyes pierced through Alfred’s, as though daring him to say something. He continued, “But he said he’d kick me out of the team and out me to the student body if I didn’t do it with him. I was seventeen, and I didn’t know any better. He was one hell of a blackmailer, that guy. He was supposed to be the substitute coach, but for some odd reasons, he had photos of me and Francis, who was like my secret boyfriend back then. He always threatened me about ruining my image. _‘What will they think once they find out that Arthur Kirkland likes boys? They’ll find it unacceptable, won’t they? Nobody will look you in the eyes ever again,’_ he said.”

Arthur stubbed out his finished cigarette and lit another one. “I wasn’t ready to come out in sixth form, for heaven’s sake. I didn’t want anyone to know about me back then. I’ve had enough taunting as a child, I couldn’t take another. I was utterly terrified that I submitted easily. Do you know what he said? _‘It’s supposed to hurt, it’ll feel so much better after a while, you’ll see.’_ And when he finished, he told me, _‘Don’t say anything, okay, Artie? This will be our secret.’_ ”

He blinked, pegging himself to the present, and waited a moment.

“I felt filthy and confused and ashamed. I thought it was a one-time thing, but then he threatened me again. It went on for two months until he was sacked. Got caught harassing another team member.”

Below them, the city hummed to life. Its congested streets and traffic noise hauled Alfred’s mind from the images of the peaceful cottage and the thick woods. Sleep eluded him with the promise of return by dusk. An unsettling feeling grew at the pit of his stomach – he started the countdown before the sphere of warmth and comfort vanished. Secondhand smoke filled his lungs. Blurting out _I’m sorry_ had become a habit lately.

“What happened after?” For some reason, his throat felt tighter. “Did you tell anyone?”

Arthur shook his head and studied the orange flicker of his stick. “I went on with life like nothing happened. I talked to my classmates, bantered with my teammates, and met Francis after class. That was the only way I kept things under control, but I knew I couldn’t deny it forever. It was always there, tucked in the deepest corners of my mind, waiting for the right moment to resurface,” he said. “The people at home noticed something was wrong. Francis did, too. The panic attacks just kept coming. Sometimes I felt too ill to go to school; sometimes I made excuses not to go. They all assumed it was stress from academics. Nobody saw the self-inflicted cuts and bruises under my uniform.”

He laughed humorlessly. “I promised myself I wouldn’t tell anybody for the rest of my life – nobody had to know. The truth came out when I woke up at a hospital three years later, when I failed to end everything. But that’s another story.”

He bent over and tapped his cigarette on the ash tray. “Basically, they said if I really decided to live, I’d let them help me. And so, it became an open secret between me, my doctors, and my family. Naturally, it created an emotional chain reaction. Mum blamed herself. She felt devastated by the fact that I couldn’t trust her with the truth as it happened. My brothers felt the same.”

A wintering robin hopped on the window ledge and flew away before one of his kind got him.

“Sometimes,” said Arthur, “I’d still think about it, while having sex with my exes. Some of them weren’t any better, mind. I dunno, I just felt like a worthless piece of shit who deserved the awful treatment.”

Alfred found himself staring at the top of his folded knees, his fingers laced together. Did Arthur have the same thoughts last night? When would he stop summoning his worst experiences? What could he say to make him feel better? How could he help?

“But that’s the past now.”

His back was a blank wall that kept Alfred an outsider scouring for answers from a distance. Arthur pulled a shirt above his head and put on a pair of underpants and pajamas.

A million thoughts ran through Alfred’s head with immeasurable speed that he couldn’t string the words together and say them aloud. _You’re a survivor and you’re stronger than before. You don’t have to punish yourself for what other people did to you. You’ll meet a lot of people in your life, and some of them will hurt you – don’t be one of them… Don’t give up on yourself. Keep fighting._

His thoughts dispelled as Arthur held on to his arms like safety rails. “C’mon, make me some waffles.”

* * *

Alfred cursed as foam spilled from his can of Coke. Poker had been one of the most lucrative weekend activities at Feliciano and Lovino’s, especially after they limited their operations to the daytime pizzeria, but Alfred abstained to sit alone on the living room and play the lovesick boyfriend. Everything else seemed too exhausting; all he wanted to do was wait for Arthur’s reply. He ran through their messages for the day again.

**_7:30PM_ **

_And u how’s the wedding? :D_

**_7:36PM_ **

_It’s good fun. The guests are wasted from playing Flip Cup._

**_7:37PM_ **

_Found any hot guys 2 make out with?_

**_7:50PM_ **

_If I say no, will you let me fuck you when I get home?_

**_7:50PM_ **

_I know u like me that much ;)_

That was the end of their conversation. He considered asking him something because he felt like it was left hanging, but to his relief, Arthur messaged him again.

**_8:27PM_ **

_We’re wrapping up now. I’m coming home in a while._

**_8:28PM_ **

_Ok pls drive safely!!! :*_

**_8:29PM_ **

_I will. See you in a bit. x_

The door opened and everyone in the dining room craned their necks to see the newcomer.

“Eliza!” Feliciano sprung from his seat to fling his arms around poor Elizaveta, who had hardly removed her trench coat and her scarf.

She flashed her beauty-queen smile and said, “Hey, Feli. Hey, everyone!”

The men in the dining room chorused _hello_ , and went back to business, their faces betraying no emotion.

With one look, she quickly assessed the situation like a mother coming home from work. The dining room was off-limits. Leaving the boys alone to their bluffing, she sat beside Alfred. “Hey, Al.”

He shoved his phone in his pocket, a grin lingering on his lips. “Hello, Liz.”

“Where’s Arthur?”

“He’s out of town tonight. He’s got a wedding stint.”

“I see,” she said and hesitated, “How is he?”

Alfred’s shoulders sagged. He stared at the silhouettes on the wall opposite them. “Honestly? I don’t know…. Sometimes he’s wonderful, like nothing can ever go wrong, and other times…” He shrugged, his gaze falling to his socked feet.

“Does he still have panic attacks?”

“He had a few after Kiku… you know, but not anymore, I guess.”

She nodded. “It’s been a while since he had them. Luckily, we knew what to do when he was with us —“ she glanced at the dining room and lowered her voice, “Feli used to have them before as well, you know? But they reacted differently: hugging comforted Feli while touching made Arthur even more distressed, so we avoided it as much as possible.”

“Yeah, I didn’t know what to do the first time. I freaked out. But then he told me about breathing exercises and distractions, so I was more prepared the next time.”

She pulled out her coffee from the paper bag she was holding and took a sip. “He’d be so embarrassed afterwards — he wouldn’t show himself for days. He only talked to Kiku. You know how he is. He never likes being an inconvenience.”

“Did you know why he never goes to the beach?”

“Not really. Arthur’s a very private person,” she said, “But we do know about his BPD. He briefly mentioned it after apologising for storming out once.”

The poker match finished as Matthias, grinning ear to ear, threw his arms in the air and grabbed Lukas’ face, who spouted violent threats. The others hovered around the kitchen while waiting for Gilbert. He galloped down the stairs with a box of Monopoly.

“You guys have been thick as thieves for a while now,” he said, raising a pale eyebrow. “Wanna join the fun?”

Elizaveta pecked his lips and winked. “We’ll be there in a moment, dear.”

“Okay.” Gilbert smiled and went back to his playmates, brandishing the new source of loss, hatred, and misery.

Once her husband was gone, she asked, “How do you feel about all of this?”

Alfred knew Arthur would get upset once he learned they were discussing him at this moment, but this was his time to be selfish. He didn’t know anybody else he could talk to, and he appreciated Elizaveta for asking. With Arthur away, he could finally reflect on his own feelings.

He sighed. “I feel so tired and frustrated about myself. I don’t know what to do most of the time, Liz, but I want to make it work. I want to be there for him.”

She put a hand on his knee and looked through his eyes. “Arthur cares a lot about his loved ones, and he’ll go out of his way to give them the sky and the earth. He thinks of others before himself, and I bet he tells you he’s okay even when he’s not. It can be difficult at times, but please stay with him,” she paused, “Just… hold on. I can tell your presence makes him feel better. I’ve never seen him so happy before. Your support means a lot to him, Al.”

A loud _NOOOOO_ erupted in the distance, followed by maniacal laughter.

“I’m really worried about him right now.” He bit his lip. “Do you think I can make him see someone?”

Elizaveta thought about it for a second. “Did he mention something about it before?”

Alfred shook his head. “He avoided that talk after Kiku passed away.” He swallowed hard and looked back to the wall opposite them.

“Maybe it will help if you start telling him that you’re concerned about him and you want him to get better.”

“Yeah, I should do that.”

His phone beeped, flashing a message from Arthur. He was nearly home.

“It’s Arthur. I better get going.” He enveloped her in a tight hug and she kissed both of his cheeks. “Thanks, Liz.”

“No problem. If there’s anything else I can help with, just tell me,” she said. “Good luck.”

He peered at the dining room and said goodbye to everyone. They mumbled a low _bye, Al_ and surveyed the wealth they accumulated.

“Thanks for the excellent dinner, Toni,” he said, “Seafood paella is my new favorite.”

Antonio’s face brightened despite his massive loss of properties. “I can give you the recipe next time.”

“Yes, please!”

He padded across the living room and gave Elizaveta one last look.

“Alfred?” She said. “Take care of yourself, okay?”

He nodded and waved his hand.

As he marched out the door, Alfred threw his head back and gazed at the sky as though it would provide him answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might write about Arthur and Francis’ relationship before this story happened. Just saying. There might be some FrUK shippers out there who’d be interested. See you next update!


	13. To each, his own

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter drastically alternates between euphoria and misery. Imagine sailing through a rough sea on a small boat.  
> WARNING: NSFW, purging, mentions of eating disorder, and intrusive thoughts. Angst, angst, angst.

Taming all the sounds leaving Alfred’s mouth seemed impossible as Arthur worked wonders to his body. It was as if they were playing a song, which began softly when Arthur stripped his clothes and his lips pulled Alfred’s heart strings. When Arthur started playing him like an instrument, he could no longer suppress the sounds drawn by each fervent touch. _Did it hurt? I’m sorry, I’m sorry…_ Arthur pressed his lips against Alfred’s neck in apology, upon realizing he shoved inside him rather painfully. He was gentle and passionate at once, striking at the drums in Alfred’s chest. 

Grasping the sheets, Alfred welcomed the glorious feeling flowing to his core. He felt feverish. After hours of grinding against the kitchen counter, being pinned against the living room wall, squirming and panting, and trying different positions, he could eventually feel himself coming again. 

He moaned as the idea of Arthur kissing him deeply— devouring him— sank in. He had given himself to Arthur fully, opened and shared his body with him again. His body complained only for wanting more. He was coming— finally, finally— and Arthur was giving this feeling to him. Nothing could go beyond this, he thought. 

Through self-awareness, he savored each touch, and listened to Arthur’s ragged breaths. He felt his sweat damping his skin, and gazed at those fluttering eyelids. Excitement surrounded him while his partner vigorously pounded him against the mattress. If he could relive this moment in a loop, he’d be happy to exist in this little infinity for the rest of his life. 

Arthur’s mouth lowered to cover his neck with kisses, going down to his collarbone and his chest. 

Alfred moaned, “Ah- Arthur! Oh god, Arthur!” 

He tipped his head on the edge of the bed as Arthur brushed his fingertips against his inner thigh. Oh, all these sensations he couldn’t contain! Alfred buried his fingers in Arthur’s hair and clawed at his skin. He slithered further towards the edge of the bed, legs spread wider, Arthur in between them. 

Sifting through the scents, Alfred got lost in his own thoughts. He involuntarily murmured something that Arthur failed to hear. 

“What is it, darling?” 

“Fa-Faster, please…” 

He gasped and squirmed upon his request. He forgot how aggressive Arthur could get in bed. Who knew there was so much strength in that slender body? 

Arthur slapped and squeezed his ass. When Alfred opened his eyes, a smirk adorned his face. “You missed me, didn’t you?” 

“More than you can imagine,” came Alfred’s gruff reply. Arching his back, he regarded Arthur’s pierced bottom lip, swollen from kisses and shiny with spit. “I think— I think we should— do this more often.” 

“I think so too.” Arthur’s tongue hit the roof of his mouth as they shared a rough and sloppy kiss. Alfred revelled in the little noises Arthur made when kissing him, and so he let his hands roam across his lover’s heated body to hear more of them. He’d never craved breathlessness so much. 

Arthur felt _absolutely_ wonderful inside him. Alfred lifted his hips to have more of him— although there could never be enough— wrapping his thick thighs around his middle as their mouths smashed into each other once more. The sounds of his ecstasy resounded in the bedroom when Arthur hit that sweet spot. Alfred begged and begged for more as he was slammed deeper into the mattress, until incoherent words escaped his mouth. Until he was a panting and flustered mess. 

Fingers dug in Arthur’s crumpled hair, he moved against him in synchrony, sharing no words with each forceful thrust. Blood rushed to his lower half. His eyes rolled into the back of his head, and his mouth opened wide. 

“Ar- thur!” Alfred cried out— it was almost like a reprimand, a warning. 

As Arthur filled him up more intensely, he exploded. Alfred grunted, growled, and howled in Arthur’s ear as he came. He tensed and twitched and let the high-pitched sounds express his euphoria, which he realized, was his new favorite feeling. 

Soon after, Arthur caved in against him. After an agonizingly slow build of teasing that lasted for hours, he was coming too. His face scrunched and his breathing became short and shallow by the second. **S** creaming _Alfred_ , he climaxed. Alfred watched Arthur’s face as he orgasmed— every expression he made, every muscle in his body tensing and arching as he rode the aftershocks. Its intensity sent a thrill down Alfred’s spine and his trembling legs, that the sight of him made Alfred want to come again. 

He listened while Arthur spilled his seed inside him and left a trail of sweet kisses across his lover’s skin. The song they played was coming to an end, and it would linger. 

Arthur sagged and wheezed, a smile on his lips, drawing Alfred close to his sweat-slicked body. He had simmered down, but the blissful look in his face remained. It was the closest Alfred had seen him to peaceful, almost genuinely happy, even as shadows and strands of messy hair masked a part his face.

Once he caught his breath, Arthur pulled out of him gently. 

Alfred stirred and said with a raspy voice, “Here, let me…” 

Before Arthur could say a word, Alfred was already sliding the condom off his softening cock. His chest caught fire as he felt Arthur’s eyes on him, watching his work. 

“Thanks,” said Arthur. He kissed Alfred tenderly under his chin and let his fingers play in the soft hair at his nape. 

At a loss for response, Alfred rested his forehead against Arthur’s and reached for his hands. It took all his strength to get out of bed and clean themselves, but when finished, falling back to bed and cuddling were their instinct. 

Arthur pressed his face on Alfred’s chest, feeling his warm skin, and ran his fingertips across his arm. Alfred grabbed his wrist to breathe him in, wanting to memorize his scent, and wrapped it around his waist. For once, Arthur didn’t hold back. He wished Arthur could hear his heart beating his name. 

Watching Alfred, Arthur breathed against his neck. “I really like you, Alfred Jones.” 

Alfred searched his face in slight confusion. There was his smile and the relief in his eyes right before he closed them. Did he mean _I like having sex with you_ or _I like you as a person and you make me happy_? Alfred didn’t want to make the mistake of hoping it was the second one. He knew Arthur meant the first. 

Alfred kissed the top of his head and fell into the realm of sleep. 

 

* * *

 

Arthur’s emotions came in tidal highs and lows, Alfred realized. His silence terrified Alfred to the core, but lately, he found that it was the calm ocean on a sunny day. He’d rather endure it than reason with Arthur throwing a fit, which was a hurricane in the same ocean that he couldn’t associate with fine weather. The harsh, irritable, and irrational Arthur was another side of him that Alfred had encountered one evening after work.  

To be fair, Alfred wasn’t in the best mood when he came home. He’d been gone for the day after he and his band went to check out a possible gig venue out of town. He drove on the way back, which took about an hour and a half with all the heavy traffic they’d passed, and all he wanted was to lie in bed. 

When he arrived, he simply dropped his things to the floor and placed his guitar beside the coat rack. He and Arthur exchanged a few words about their day, and he soon claimed his spot on the couch to rest his sore legs. He was scrolling through his Facebook feed when he heard his guitar fall flat on the floor. The loud _thud_ made him flinch as if it hurt him physically.

“Sorry.”

“ _Arthur!”_ Alfred fought through the shock to inspect the damage. He kicked himself mentally for leaving his guitar beside the coat rack, but it was too late. Fortunately, the soft case saved it from disfiguration. _“W_ hy did you do that?”

“I said I’m sorry,” replied Arthur, “I was feeling dizzy and I tripped against it so it fell to the floor.”

“No, I saw it. You did it on purpose. You knocked it over!” said Alfred. Strong winds carried Alfred’s words. Perhaps Arthur’s ocean was capable of stirring a storm in Alfred’s ocean too. Exhaustion weighed him down like mountains of sand. Why did Arthur choose this time to act like a child who desperately needed attention? 

Arthur winced and backed away. Somehow, gazing at the floor made him seem smaller. “Please don’t yell at me.” 

Alfred took a deep breath to steady himself. Light breeze and soft waves. “I’m not yelling at you.”

“Yes, you are,” Arthur said, twisting his wrist. “You don’t consider my feelings because you don’t care about me!”

“That’s not true.”

“Yes, it is!”

Alfred waited for a second before reaching over, which turned out to be a mistake. The hurricane was brewing fast in Arthur’s ocean and there was no stopping it from treading down casualties. 

Arthur yelled, “Don’t touch me! I hate you! I hate you! I _know_ you hate me too!” 

“Arthur, I don’t. I’m just a little upset, but please, _please_ calm down.” Alfred raised his hands in surrender. 

“Liar! Get away from me!”

Arthur didn’t seem to realize he was screaming until his throat was dry and near voiceless. 

“Arthur, I’m sorry.”

“Fuck off and go to your mates!”

Heavy footsteps lead to the bedroom, and _BANG_ went the door, making Alfred’s heart stop. 

Regret immediately festered Alfred’s mind. That night, he lay awake in the dark, watching lights throw flitting shadows across the bedroom walls. Arthur slept on his side, refusing to face Alfred’s side of the bed. They didn’t talk for the next two days. 

* * *

Arthur ran his fingertips through the shaved part of his head. He’d gotten an undercut again and dyed his hair bubblegum blue just because it felt right, and definitely not because he watched _Eternal Sunshine of The Spotless Mind_ again last week. He stared at the medicine schedule posted on the fridge. Alfred took the liberty to list down all the meds Arthur took and printed them with their respective dosages and timeframe. He also bought a container with seven compartments for each day of the week so Arthur wouldn’t have an excuse to miss a dose. 

Opening the _Tuesday_ section, Arthur took the roll of paper sandwiched between the tablets. It wasn’t time to take his meds yet, but he wanted to read the quote Alfred left for him since he didn’t have the chance that morning. Aside from organizing his medicine schedule, Alfred had also resorted into taking positive quotes from Tumblr, printing them into strips of paper, and putting them in the medicine container so Arthur had something different to read every day. 

_The stars would be so proud to know their atoms created someone like you._

Arthur smiled. They didn’t actually make him feel better, but he appreciated the fact that Alfred was _trying_. 

His boyfriend had promised he would call, and Arthur had been waiting forever. He was at a gig again, a few cities away, no less. To distract himself from Alfred’s absence, he went to the kitchen and started baking. He wanted to make vanilla cream pie because Alfred liked it the last time he made one. 

Interestingly, Arthur had developed skills in baking that he’d never gained in cooking. He took comfort in the slow and scrupulous process of making the dough and combining sugar, flour, and salt. Stirring the milk in the pan, he found satisfaction in the little circular motions of the spatula. Pulling the pie out of the oven was his favorite part of the entire process. He took a whiff— it smelt appetizing! He was proud of himself. 

Taking the mittens off, he glanced at the clock on the wall. Alfred was supposed to be home in about three hours. He readjusted his apron and pushed up the sleeves of his gray pullover to prepare the carbonara. He had more confidence in cooking this time around, remembering the dishes his boyfriend had taught him. Arthur might not have said it verbally, but making an effort to cook dinner was his way of apologizing for his ill behavior the past couple of days.

While waiting for the pasta to boil, Arthur absentmindedly fiddled with the kitchen utensils that caught his eyes. This was another habit he couldn’t break. Things that were out of place or lopsided distracted him. He had to make sure they were all in alignment and in their respective places. No matter how tiny or how many times he had to realign them, he had to be _in control,_ or else, he’d feel like the apartment, his comfort zone, had been thrown into chaos. 

His ringtone chimed and pulled him out of his compulsion. He snatched his phone from the counter at the speed of lightning, the scent of lemon zest lingering in his hands as he held the phone against his ear. 

“I’m making carbonara!” 

“Hey, babe!” was the perky reply. Laughter— the kind that made Arthur’s heart quiver— ghosted in his ear until it dwindled into silence. “Uh… About dinner. I don’t think we can make it tonight… Our clients are throwing a party and they invited us last minute, and they won’t take ‘no’ for an answer?” 

Arthur had to muster all his strength to listen to Alfred’s (rambling) reasoning. “Right, right…” 

Spontaneously, he listened to the people on the background. He could almost see them laughing, drinking, and kissing as the strobe lights touched their faces. That was when he felt the kitchen spinning and he had to sit down and get a grip of himself. He was barely paying attention to what Alfred was saying; he could hear him faintly saying _I’ll make it up to you when I come home._ Alfred was having too much fun without him. _It’s alright, I understand. Have fun_ , was his weak response before hanging up and completely losing his voice.

Arthur sat in silence and closed his eyes, grounding himself. Slowly counting to ten, he opened his eyes again and found the kitchen back to normal, in perfect alignment. Maybe he did kiss some guys impulsively at the wedding reception, but that didn’t mean Alfred could do the same and neglect him. No, Alfred was the nicest person he’d ever dated. He could never do that. 

As soon as he finished cooking the carbonara, he reckoned eating it felt wrong without Alfred, so he chucked it in the fridge once it wasn’t steaming hot anymore. Then, he went straight to bed. 

Alfred’s side of the bed was cold in his absence, and yet his pillow suggested his presence with the scent of his cologne and roasted coffee. In that moment, Arthur suddenly forgot what it felt like to sleep alone. He was in bed, tucked under the layers of warm blankets, but the bedroom spun, like the kitchen did earlier. Arthur closed his eyes and shuddered. Was the heater working? Yes, it was. However, without Alfred, he was freezing. He needed his warmth, the kind that could make him forget how cold the world could be. He turned to his side and hugged himself. 

Staring at the wall opposite him, he wondered if Alfred was thinking about him. Probably not. He was busy enjoying other people’s company like the sociable, extremely likeable person that he was. Arthur’s mind went back to the party noise he heard earlier. He could hear Alfred’s voice atop the EDM songs, _Do you hang out here a lot? What? You think I’m cute? You’re funny! Hey, here’s my number._

Arthur rolled over. His stomach was churning and his throat tightening. His bones were melting and dripping to the floor. He buried his face against Alfred’s pillow and inhaled his scent until darkness swallowed him. 

* * *

Silence greeted Alfred upon opening the apartment door. There was no music coming from the recorder, nor rustling in the kitchen where he expected the kettle to be whistling, just in time for tea. He took his damp shoes off and hung his coat on the rack. Strange. 

Usually, a trace of domestic clutter would find him whenever he came home. It was not a shocking whirlwind affair though, the disarray, only a few music sheets Alfred left on the coffee table, the mugs Arthur was too lazy to place in the kitchen sink, or the misplaced remote control in one of the shelves on a few occasions. But that day, everything was in order. Alfred imagined Mrs. Weasley flicking her wand to reorganize the disorderly Weasley household upon Harry Potter’s arrival. Was Arthur expecting a very important visitor? Or was he having panic attacks again?

To make his presence known, he hollered, “Honey, I’m home!”

He giggled to himself, half-expecting the explosive remark. Tiptoeing across the hall, he found Arthur in his studio. Ah. 

“There you are!” He announced in a moderate voice to avoid startling his boyfriend. 

He worked diligently on the computer, creating odd rhythms with the clicking of mouse and tapping of keys. 

Alfred approached his side, his face slanting to meet Arthur’s lips and his nose pressing against his cheek. He tasted of butter toast, honey, and cigarette. He smelled strongly of smoke too, like he’d spent the day at a night club, which Alfred realized was a funny thought. His lips strayed to his neck, playfully  nipping at the skin. Before he could comment on Arthur’s lack of response, his boyfriend pulled away. 

“Hey…” Eyebrows scrunched in confusion, Alfred searched his face. “Hey, are you upset?” 

Arthur stared at him, his eyes flashing a peculiar shade of gray. Did winter steal those vivid greens? Or was it the blue hair? Whatever it was, it didn’t prevent the chill from creeping up Alfred’s spine and sinking in his bones. Without a reply, Arthur returned to his task on Photoshop.

“Arthur, look, I’m sorry,” Alfred frowned, wanting to touch his shoulders but deciding against it. “It’s just— the past weeks had been very busy. My bandmates and I had been working hard, yeah we were together a lot, but it’s all work. I wanted to spend more time and have fun and be _friends_ with them.” 

Arthur— _finally_ — looked at him with an unreadable expression. “Well, that’s life, isn’t it? Embracing every moment,” he said, “And there comes a time when we regret every little thing we’ve done, thinking we shouldn’t have done it in the first place or maybe we could’ve done better.”

He stood up, leaving Alfred to inspect his workspace. The studio was spotless too— the paint brushes were in their holder, the easel neatly folded against the bureau, and the sketches pinned in a straight line against the walls. Everything, except for an empty paint tube beside the computer, was in its respective place. Interesting, Alfred thought. 

The label said _Permanent Green No. 1_ , but the corners were red, and he was sure the pigment was thinner than paint. Alfred whipped his head at Arthur whose hand was on the doorknob. His sleeve hiked up for a second and revealed a flicker of red lines on his forearm, red as the tint on the paint tube’s corners. The slamming of the bedroom door punctuated their conversation. 

Invisible fingers wrung Alfred’s neck. He had to do something _soon_. 

* * *

Water cascaded from the tap in harsh currents, resembling a little waterfall, and masking the retching sounds Arthur made as he bowed to the toilet. After getting sloshed countlessly in his teenage years, he’d gotten acquainted with the drill, which he found neither daunting nor comforting. 

His eating disorder was never gone, not really. He’d been dealing with its recurrence for ten years and counting, which he’d been reminded as he couldn’t keep his food down these days. Every time he ate, it was as though the food never got down to his stomach, and instead trapped in his throat, waiting to make a reappearance. Sometimes, he needed to prod his throat with his fingers to get rid of them. To cleanse himself. 

Once the last wave had passed, Arthur pressed his cheek against the toilet seat, counted slowly, and listened to his rapid heartbeat. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. Painstakingly, he stood up, leaning against the sink for support. He washed his hands and sprayed some water to his face. To get rid of the taste of bile on his tongue, he gurgled with his mouthwash. 

He scowled at his reflection in the mirror. 

With the same cautious pace, he stepped out of the bathroom. The living room swayed. Lightheadedness hit him like a blow to the head. It was only after breakfast, but he was ready to go back to bed. 

Alfred was reading his book on the couch. He must have finished Skyping with his brother. He put his book down upon seeing Arthur enter the living room. 

Knowing his eyes were still red like he’d been crying, Arthur turned to the kitchen sink to wash the pile of dishes. 

“Are you alright?” asked Alfred. 

“Yes, of course,” replied Arthur.

“Are you sure?” 

“Yeah.”

Arthur concentrated on the dishes, reining his awareness to the warm tap water and the cool sensation of ceramic against his shaking hands, the bubbles from the dishwashing soap… _Breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth_. Fatigue rang through his body. For nights, he could hardly sleep: he’d jolt awake from a disturbing dream and glare at the ceiling for minutes, sometimes for _hours_ , while Alfred slept so peacefully beside him. The meds did nothing to make him feel better. He wondered how his legs have kept him from lying on the floor, but he’d rather skip that thought. 

“Arthur?”

“Hm?” Arthur rolled his sleeves a little, careful not to expose his forearms too much. The cuts were still bright red and noticeable even at a distance. Curse his pale complexion. 

“I’m thinking…” 

Hesitation. 

“What is it?” He forced a faint smile, like how a puppeteer would pull some strings to make his marionette look happy. 

“You know… I care about you a lot, and I’m really worried about you right now. Don’t you think you should go talk to someone like, you know…” Another echo of hesitation. “Someone like Kiku.”

It was as if Alfred was weighing down his two options— to say Kiku’s name and remind Arthur of his recent loss, or to utter a word that might hurt or offend him. Arthur knew he’d secretly borrowed psychology books from the public library, and he’d been reading about personality disorders on his iPad when Alfred thought he wasn’t looking. 

Arthur sighed. “Al, I’m fine. I don’t need to talk to anyone. I’m… I’m tired, that’s all.” 

Silence rippled, widening the distance between them. For a moment, Arthur envisioned being in the middle of an open sea with Alfred. He could see for miles and miles, and there was only the two of them. 

What made Alfred think he needed help? He surely wasn’t giving away signs of depression anymore.   He dragged himself out of bed every morning, went outside, and ate (the food wouldn’t stay inside him for long, but for the record, he _did_ eat in front of Alfred). He was back to his regular shower and exercise schedule. He took his meds on time, stopped moaning about headaches… He even shared his pathetic body with him, which was the pinnacle of his _Not Depressed_ symptoms.  

“But Arthur—”

He dropped the bowl he was holding, making Alfred jump out of his skin. He was probably scared it broke. 

“You think there’s something terribly wrong with me, don’t you?” 

Arthur sent him a cold stare that was bound to freeze someone’s blood and veins, something he’d never given anyone before. Discomfort slinked under his skin when he saw the way Alfred was looking at him. Maybe he was one of those people who were judging him easily… or was he getting tired of him? Regardless, his fears were coming true. 

“N-No! Of course not! I just thought, maybe, you should probably—”

“You can’t tell me what to do. I’m not your fucking child!”

He didn’t want to need help again. He didn’t need any help at all. 

Before he knew it, he’d marched to Alfred’s side. His fist landed on the wall like a falling star, just inches away from Alfred’s face, and a wave of silence followed. His sense of control deserted him in an instant and was replaced by a destructive flurry of anger, only to be unleashed by his knuckles against the flat surface before him. One blow after the other, and another, and another, until the poor thin plywood wall had two little craters in it. His other senses must have abandoned him as well because it took some time to feel a pair of arms wrapped around him and hear a murmur of desperate pleas. 

“Stop hurting yourself—”

“Piss off!”

“Arthur, please—” 

“Piss off, I said!”

In an attempt to shrug him off, Arthur shoved Alfred against the wall the way he did when someone at a bar got on his nerves. Alfred hit his head with a loud thud, yelling in pain. In one motion, he lost his balance and fell to the floor. That was when the world came to a full stop. Struggling for breath, Alfred looked up at Arthur with wide, terrified eyes.

As realization hit him, Arthur stepped back. He felt like he was going to be sick again. 

_What have you done this time?_

Heavy breathing filled the petrified silence. He crushed his eyes with the heel of his hands to prevent the onset of violent thoughts.

_You’re evil. Evil, evil, evil. What did he do to you to treat him that way? He just wanted to help. He doesn’t deserve a monster like you. Nobody does._

Arthur stormed out of the house before he ran out of breath.

_You don’t deserve him. You deserve to be punished._

* * *

_When Arthur was 12, his mum married his stepfather. He knew he should be happy for her— she was finally starting a new life with another man that could make her feel whole again after years of struggling with the loss of her first husband. Yet, Arthur couldn’t help but feel despair._

_He had a new brother. He was called Peter. At six months, he had cute chubby cheeks, the same bushy eyebrows that seemed to be a dominant family trait, and all of his brothers and his mother’s attention. Arthur didn’t feel okay, not at all._

_Allistor caught him at the top of the stairs. He’d lay low after the ‘knife incident’ and was suddenly trying to make up for being a horrible brother. It was as if a fairy cast a spell on him, which made him grow mature after that. He was doing his best to befriend Arthur, and they started bonding little by little. It reached its peak when he made Arthur wear a kilt with him for a school activity. The framed photographs downstairs attested to them being genuinely happy that day. Arthur was in his best mood, behaving really well, and everything was perfect as though their family was never gripped by the claws of trauma._

_However, despite Allistor’s efforts in checking up on his little brother, Arthur felt nothing but suspicion._

_“Arthur, are you alright?” Allistor asked. A hint of concern flickered in his green eyes. “Do you want something to eat?”_

_“No, thank you. I’m fine.”_

_“Are you sure?”_

_Arthur sighed. The day had turned out to be one of his least favorites. He’d been idling around the house all day and nobody ever thought about paying attention to him, which made him feel like a ghost. And then there was his big brother, suddenly asking how he felt, acting like a new parental figure. Suppose he told him what was actually going on inside his stormy mind? No, telling him to bugger off was the way to go._

_“I said I’m fine,” he snapped. “Leave me alone.”_

_“Arthur—” Allistor held his arm, which was his big mistake. Of all the things he could forget, he should have kept in mind that Arthur. Hated. Being. Touched._

_“Don’t touch me!” Arthur recoiled. As his instincts kicked in, he pushed Allistor away from him. He didn’t have time to regret his actions once his brother’s eyes widened and his hands failed to reach for the staircase ledge. A helpless and panicked cry escaped Allistor’s mouth before falling and rolling down the stairs and landing on the ground floor with a resonant crash. Silence rang in Arthur’s ears. Time stopped._

_“I-I…”_

_Shaking, he looked down at his hands and he swore they were soaked with blood that only he could see. He stepped backwards, further and further until his back hit the hallway’s wall._

_“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”_

_His voice cracked, and his throat tightened in protest, punishing him by constricting the air to his lungs. He ripped at his hair, and he slammed his head against the wall until he bled._ I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry! _He chanted over and over. That was when his stepfather, with Patrick and Dylan, finally located Allistor unconscious at the bottom of the stairs._

_He vaguely remembered his mother scooping him in her arms, trying to get him to stop crying._

Arthur blinked and heaved with the effort of a man who had emerged from quicksand. He looked around him to inspect his surroundings. He remembered taking his car and driving out of the city, but he couldn’t recognize where he was. 

Outside, a thick blanket of snow covered the dense forest. Leafless black trees stretched far and wide,  melting into the blue darkness that was left by the setting sun. There were no street lamps and his car’s headlights were the only source of light in the distance. No trace of other cars could be found in the vicinity, either. 

The scene reminded him of the morning he drove away after sleeping with Alfred for the first time. 

He closed his eyes. Rage had simmered down in his chest and left a headache in its wake. He exhaled sharply, a cloud of mist escaping his lips, and rested his forehead against the steering wheel. A bitter taste lingered in his mouth.  

Alfred didn’t deserve pain and destruction. He was worth more: he deserved happiness in the arms of a stable lover. He should leave while he still had time. 

He should forget all about Arthur because Arthur was a monster who deserved to be alone.

* * *

Alfred opened his eyes. _5:13_ , Arthur’s digital clock blinked and glowed in the dark. Even as he unwillingly gave in to sleep at two a.m., he felt wide awake. Impulse badgered him into checking his phone, and when he didn’t find any notifications from Arthur, he dragged his feet to the kitchen to get himself a glass of water. 

His heart clenched at the sight of a shivering and slumbering figure on the couch, curled up with his hands tucked under crossed arms. Messy bluish blond hair— silvery under the moonlight— veiled his pale face. He still hadn’t changed his clothes. The thin woollen sweater and skinny jeans couldn't protect him enough from the unforgiving early morning air. Alfred hurried back to the bedroom to fetch some blankets. Where did he go? When did he come home? Did he eat? 

He cocooned Arthur in blankets and eventually, he stopped shivering. Cringing at the sudden warmth, Arthur threw his arms and kicked the covers away from him.

“No!” He wheezed and jolted awake, his primal reaction to defend himself against whoever tried to touch him in his sleep. 

Alfred spoke softly, “Arthur, it’s just me.”

Embarrassment tinted Arthur’s face while Alfred waited for him to collect his breath and relax where he sat. Sitting beside him, Alfred gazed towards the window seat; from the ceiling hung the paper crane mobile they strung together, discolored by the winter morning shadows. 

“Are you okay?” Alfred finally asked. 

Arthur nodded. 

“I was so worried because you were gone for hours and you wouldn’t answer your phone.”

Arthur kept his eyes on the carpet. He wrung his hands and shifted in his seat like he’d rather be somewhere else.

“I made a mistake, Alfred. I’m sorry…” He inhaled deeply. His hands trembled as he picked at the fabrics of the blankets, but they both knew the cold had nothing to do with it. Dark bruises bloomed across his knuckles from punching the wall earlier. It looked painful when he moved his fingers, and Alfred made a mental note to inspect them later, when there would be proper daylight. “I’m terribly sorry…” 

Alfred gazed at those remorseful green eyes. _I hate you, fuck off!_ They’d flash sometimes, and other times, they’d say, _I’m sorry. I’m horrible, but please don’t hate me._ And they would do nothing but stir confusion in Alfred’s heart.

“Did you hear me? Alfred, I’m sorry.” Arthur said in a small, desperate voice while searching his face. Alfred had to look away again when he heard the crack in his voice, or else tears would fall. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t myself—” 

“Shh,” said Alfred. He cleared his throat and braved a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry about me. It’s alright now, see? No harm done.”

Conflict erupted on Arthur’s face and he failed to gather any words in response. 

Instead of persuading Arthur into believing him, Alfred asked, “Can I give you a hug?”

For a moment, Arthur studied him to make sense of his words as if he spoke a foreign language, wide eyes flickering with confusion. And then, without another word, he found himself pulling Alfred into a bear hug. Alfred hugged him back, feeling Arthur’s heart beating steadfast. He squeezed all of Arthur, his flesh, his bones, his soul… If only it could take all his pain away. Alfred’s heart twinge with guilt as he remembered the root of their argument. He shouldn’t have upset Arthur in the first place. Maybe he should have waited for him to admit he needed help, maybe he needed time to sort out his feelings until he could pull himself together again. Maybe, maybe…  

Alfred knew there wasn’t a pill that could cure this illness. He was also well aware that loving Arthur wasn’t enough to make it go away, but for once, he wished it was. 

He squeezed Arthur tighter, running his hands from the fine hair at the back of his neck down to the line of his spine, and kissed the top of his head.  

“Let’s go to bed.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone! Are you still there? If you are, thank you so much for sticking around. I feel terribly ashamed for not updating for more than a year, but life had gotten ridiculously busy. (To be honest, I had trouble starting this chapter too because I loved the way I wrote the last one, and I had crippling doubts this update wouldn’t measure up to it. :/)  
> I really want to finish this soon because it’s been going on for more than three years already?? You’ve practically seen the evolution of my writing. Believe it or not, there are some parts in this story that I refuse to revisit *cringes* But I often find myself avoiding The End and working on new (and less emotionally draining) ones instead. Oh, I don’t know. Let me know what you think! You guys keep me going. x  
> If you’re interested in reading my drabbles (which I write in between updates/short stories), you can check out prussiumscribbles.tumblr.com.  
> See you next update!


	14. Pick your poison

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter may be short, but it is the real tearjerker. The last one was just a prelude. Prepare a box of tissues.
> 
> WARNING: mentions of eating disorder and a panic attack

Numbers shot up in Alfred’s head as he watched Arthur shove away his bowl of Lucky Charms. Calorie count. He imagined a calorie counter running in Arthur’s mind, announcing how many unnecessary calories his cereal contained. Arthur scrutinized the bowl with subtle disgust as the oats and glazed marshmallows floated in milk. Fingers curling around his mug, he took a sip of his freshly brewed tea ( _ no milk, and definitely no sugar,  _ he told Alfred). 

He drummed his fingers on the countertop to fill the awkward silence. Arthur’s knuckles were slowly healing. They were X-rayed and bandaged at the ER yesterday. No fractures, fortunately, just a little bit sprained, so they had to be taped together for a few days.

“It’s alright. Take your time,” said Alfred. 

Taking time was what they do these days. Slowly, but surely, or else they would hit the curb and crash on the pavement. He was giving Arthur the time he needed, waiting for him to get some help.  _ Waiting, waiting, waiting…  _ the words echoed in Alfred’s ear like the repetitive ticking of the clock. 

“I’ll leave it here in case you change your mind,” Alfred continued before Arthur could leave the kitchen counter and head back to the bedroom. 

Arthur shrugged. “Thanks,” he said, “I’ll eat later.”

Alfred watched Arthur’s retreating back in silence and ate his own bowl of cereal.

Later that day, they went out together. For distraction, just to breathe in some fresh winter air. Alfred was starting to feel the onset of cabin fever, so he suggested visiting the Christmas market to do a bit of shopping for their families. 

Hundreds of shoppers bustled all over the city center in search for the perfect gifts for their loved ones. A colossal Christmas tree stood in the middle of the town square, surrounded by fairy lights and larger-than-life decors. LED lights twinkled in the distance in dozens of different colors, and SALE was the most popular four-letter word, plastered in almost every store window.  

An independent bookshop caught Arthur’s eye. Its wooden floors and cozy sofas seemed to be the best retreat from the bone-chilling weather.

“I’m getting this for Mom,” said Alfred, leafing through the pages of  _ The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up _ by Marie Kondo. 

“She’s into minimalism, huh?” asked Arthur, tracing his fingers along the spines of  _ L- _ titled books.

“Yeah, but only recently,” replied Alfred, “She and Dad are kind of clearing the house of unnecessary things, now that Mattie and I have moved out, haha. They’re really interested in spending less on things and more on travels.” 

“That’s cool,” said Arthur, eyeing the shelves behind the banister upstairs. His nose and his cheeks were redder under the store’s fluorescent lights. 

“How about your family?” asked Alfred, “What do they like?”

For the rest of the afternoon, Alfred let his imagination wander. From time to time, he’d find a couple teasing each other in front of him and imagined them as his and Arthur’s future. His mind raced four, five, six years ahead, showing him and Arthur as a married couple, shopping for their loved ones while holding hands, laughing, and leaning close to each other for warmth. 

He felt heat spread across his face as Arthur nudged his arm, bringing him back to the present. 

“—do you reckon?” Arthur asked. 

“Huh? Sorry?” He blinked. 

“I said, do you think they’ll look lovely in the apartment?” Arthur pointed at the three succulents in the flower shop’s indoor plants shelf. 

“Absolutely! They’ll look great in the bookcases.”   

Without needing more encouragement, Arthur bought the plants and left with a satisfied smile. He and Alfred squeezed through the thick crowds for the last time to do some more window shopping. Alfred seemed to get an energy boost the minute they stepped out of the flower shop, pointing out ridiculous items, and commenting _Why would people want to wear those?_ _Consumerism is overrated._

Exhaustion consumed them by the time they reached the end of the fifth street. Alfred suggested they get some hot drinks at a coffee shop and rest their legs, but before they reached the coffee shop, Arthur kept fidgeting with his trembling hands, which Alfred didn’t miss. 

“Forgot your gloves at home?” He asked. 

“Er, yeah.” 

Alfred immediately took off his mittens and put them on Arthur’s. He grabbed his wrists and pulled his closer. 

“Better?” 

Arthur nodded, his trembling subsiding a little bit. He exhaled a shaky breath upon realizing people’s eyes were on them.  

Alfred squeezed his hands and the next thing he knew, his winter-chapped lips pressed against his. After a moment’s hesitation, Arthur returned the kiss, lightly biting at Alfred’s lower lip, letting his breath warm up his insides.  

“Just to let them know to whom I belong,” whispered Alfred, putting a small smile on Arthur’s face.

He took Arthur’s hand and together they entered the coffee shop.

Upon coming home, they decided a hot bubble bath was in order. Alfred was very eager to try the galactic bath bomb he bought from Lush. It was a bit of a splurge, but after today’s trip, he considered it was worth it. 

They filled the tub with hot water and they played like little boys, getting creative with their hairstyles and making bubble beards. Splashing each other with water, laughing, and kissing. 

“Hey, you look cute with a beard!” said Alfred, perfecting his boyfriend’s blue, soapy mohawk.  

“Only if it’s bubble,” said Arthur. He stretched his arms along the tub’s edge to rest his back against Alfred’s chest. 

Alfred said nothing as he ran his fingers across Arthur’s naked body. He traced the side of his face, his neck, his shoulders, descending to his ribs, hips, and thighs. He was aware of how hollow Arthur’s cheeks have become, his bones becoming more and more prominent under his pallid skin. He closed his eyes, trying not to think about the image of wilting flowers. 

He wrapped his arms around Arthur and cuddled him, pressing Arthur’s bony back against his chest. Arthur tightened his arms around Alfred’s and folded his legs, sighing. Tangled together in a peaceful moment like this, Alfred’s chest swelled with all the songs he wanted to sing, hoping to tell Arthur how much he loved him. 

* * *

“—We all know Cap’s the best out of all the Avengers—”

Gilbert scoffed. “I beg to disagree! Iron Man’s the best.” 

“No way, Cap’s the man!” Alfred draped an arm around Arthur’s shoulders, seeking his approval. “Right, baby?”

Gilbert squinted. “It’s Iron Man.”

“I hate to break it to you losers, but Thor  _ is _ the best. He may be light-years away from the Norse version, but he’s super cool,” said Mathias. 

“Black Widow deserves her own movie,” insisted Elizaveta, pointing at the boys with a spatula and her other arm on her hip. 

“Ludwig, enlighten them,” Gilbert urged his brother helplessly, “or I’ll revoke my sponsorship on the catering.” 

Ludwig raised an eyebrow. In a matter of seconds, skepticism, outrage, and embarrassment flickered on his face. 

“Just kidding, little brother!” Gilbert stood on his toes to rub his knuckles on Ludwig’s head. “The big day will be in winter next year, everyone! They’re gonna have a Christmas wedding!” He said, and wiped the invisible tears from his eyes. “My little brother’s getting married, I can’t believe it!” 

Ludwig blushed, suddenly taking interest in the carpet. 

Arthur followed the rest of the conversation from his comfortable position on the sofa, his knee pressed against his chest, and a glass of red wine in his hand. Alfred’s laughter was music to his ears as he occasionally dropped snarky remarks to Gilbert and Mathias’s statements. Nobody mentioned his taped knuckles. Thankfully, his friends were too occupied on the ring around Feliciano’s finger. Time melted into numbers, five became six that turned to seven, then eight. 

“Dinner’s ready!” Feliciano hollered from the kitchen.

Everyone assembled around the dining table like family, although most of them were famished children, impatient to be served. Arthur’s stomach grumbled and begged for attention. He barely had anything the entire day. His throat immediately clenched at the sight of tomato and basil pasta. The inviting scent promised mouth-watering flavors and satisfaction at the end of the meal, but he didn’t deserve it. He had to get out of there. 

“Arthur?” Alfred squeezed Arthur’s cold and shaking hand underneath the table. “What’s wrong?”

He didn’t want to be hungry. Why was his body betraying him? He was showing weakness in front of  so many people. He didn’t deserve to eat. 

His vision blurred and shapes melted together. Beads of sweat covered his skin like a thin sheet of glass. His throat constricted further, stifling the air from entering his system. His heart pounded like it was a bomb ready to explode, his chest hurting as if a building collapsed over it and shrapnel pierced it endlessly, and— oh god,  _ it hurt _ . 

His breaths became even more uneven as he felt everyone’s eyes on him. He swallowed, blinking. His stomach churned like clothes inside a washing machine. 

“I… I can’t breathe…” he said, but it sounded like he was speaking to himself. 

“Get some water!” Someone said. He was at the bottom of a swimming pool, and everyone else was speaking to him from above the surface. 

He couldn’t erupt inside. There would be too many casualties. He gathered all his strength to stand up and stumbled out of the dining room, almost falling on his way out the front door. On the porch steps, he crumbled into his knees like the pathetic mess he was, and wept behind folded arms so the world couldn’t see.

Snowflakes landed on the back of his bare hands, but he couldn’t feel the cold biting his skin. He dug his fingernails on his arms, wanting to stab himself with a fork. He didn’t deserve to eat.

“Arthur…” Alfred said, reaching for him. 

Arthur swatted his hand away, once, twice, thrice. He hated it, hated how Alfred was always there, hated that Alfred _ cared _ . But at the same time he wanted him to stay and hold him tight to feel safe. 

Alfred didn’t give up. He put his arms around him, holding him tight so he wouldn’t fall into the dark abyss of his thoughts. In between the shaking, childish crying, and muffled screaming, he said, “It’s alright, I’m with you. Come on, breathe with me… You’re okay, you’re okay.” He stroked Arthur’s hair. “I know you can do it. Take one step at a time.”

Arthur made a desperate noise at the back of his throat. His uneven breathing chopped his words. “I’m trying— so damn hard! I was getting— better! I was! I was!” 

If there was anything Alfred was sure about, it was the part of Arthur that remained strong and refused to be destroyed. 

“Yes, you _ are,  _ baby,” Alfred murmured against Arthur’s ear, “You’re making a lot of progress, and I’m so proud of you.” 

Hands clawed onto the back of Alfred’s shirt, and his ears were filled with the sound of whimpering and short, rapid breaths. Alfred kissed Arthur’s head. He blinked and realized his own eyes were also damp at the edges. He swallowed the lump on his throat.

“You’re so brave, Arthur. You’re so fucking brave.” Alfred looked straight into those sad green eyes to tell Arthur he meant every word, and he wasn’t just rambling. He thought about everything Arthur had survived and how he did, from nonchalance to silence, to finally mustering the courage to tell a few, trusted people about what he’d endured and had been trying his hardest to move forward. Alfred wouldn’t know how to pick himself up if he went through the same circumstances.

When the sobbing softened a little bit, Alfred hummed a song that his foster mom used to sing every time he had nightmares, and it put him back to sleep. _You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. You make me happy when skies are gray. You never know dear, how much I love you._ _Please don’t take my sunshine away._ He hummed the lines, hoping the same calm and warmth would sink in Arthur’s chest. 

“It will get better, I promise, it will,” said Alfred, his chest vibrating against Arthur’s ear as he spoke, “Maybe… Maybe we have bad days so we can appreciate the good. It wasn’t always like this, was it? We’ve had better days. Remember when we crashed a wedding and got caught so we ran and laughed till we died? How about that day when I kept pestering you to paint me and ended up with a paint war and us on the floor laughing like there was no tomorrow?” He chuckled and sighed. “I hope you always remember the better days because they overcome the bad.” 

Arthur remained silent, pondering Alfred’s words. What did he do to deserve Alfred? Was he really worth it? Could he really get through this? 

“I’ll be here until it gets better. I promise.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last of dramatic inaction, I swear! I wish I can say this is the last of Arthur’s suffering too, but the next chapter will be a significant turning point. Three more chapters left!
> 
> Please comment if you think this is worth completing!
> 
> On the other news, I’m writing a new multi-chaptered fic with a happier theme. It involves summer romance and late-night escapades with just a little splash of angst. You can check out 'Coffee Stains' if you’re interested.


	15. If a body catch a body…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: implied suicide attempt

Alfred was hyperaware of his surroundings. Of his hand gripping Arthur’s arm, the rumbling of the train underground, the echoes and people’s shocked faces as they stomped out of the subway station. Of his heart thundering in his chest.

He gazed at Arthur for the first time since he caught him in the act. Anger contorted Arthur’s face. Wildfire spread across his green eyes. He roared, “ _Why did you do that?_ ”

Alfred’s face blanched. He should be the one asking that question: _Why would he do_ that _?_ Trembling with shock, Alfred was incapable of opening his mouth. His legs could hardly support his weight, but he willed himself to carry on. It was supposed to be a good day. They were supposed to be exploring the rest of the Christmas market until he lost Arthur in the sea of people and found him at a subway station that was clearly not theirs. Another wave of fear crashed against his body upon thinking about what could have happened if he didn’t reach Arthur in time.

Arthur wrenched himself from Alfred’s tight grip. “You can’t keep trying to save me all the time!” He yelled, “You can’t keep doing everything for other people!” 

* * *

 

They sat on the floor of Arthur’s apartment across each other, maintaining a wide space between them. Moments passed without talking, each second shaping up to be a series of a desolate montage. Words remained elusive in the aftermath of Arthur’s failed attempt. He hugged his knees tighter, feeling the anger simmering down in chest.

On the other side of the room, Alfred was staring blankly at the window, his eyes glossy. Confusion melted into frustration. He ran his hands across his hair, his weak voice shattering the silence. “You have my heart, you know that…”

Arthur lifted his head in surprise, gazing at him. Before he could say anything, Alfred was on his knees, approaching him.

“Please, Arthur,” he said, his voice cracking. “Tell me you’re getting help. I can’t stand seeing you that way anymore. I hadn’t cared so much for anyone else, not even my family that provided me a home. You’re my home now, Arthur… Please, say something.”

Arthur pursed his lips as thoughts raced in his mind. Many people could feel a strong sense of love for someone that made them believe they could _die_ for them. But how many people were willing to say _I’d live for you_ , get better, and sort out their messy lives? Arthur wanted to promise that to Alfred because he deserved it, for everything he’d done for him. He could speak those words, but how much would they weigh if he didn’t really mean them?

With the back of his hand, Alfred wiped the stray tear from his cheek. He inhaled and forced a smile.

“Hey, I’m almost done paying my dues,” he said, “We can finally go to LA. Maybe after the holidays? What do you say?”

Arthur wrapped his arms tighter around his knees. In a low voice, he said, “I don’t want to go to LA.”

“Why not?”

Arthur shrugged, gazing at something above his shoulder. “You can go ahead if you want.”

“No way! We’re going together!” said Alfred. “We’re starting our adventure, remember?”

When no response came, he asked, “You wanna go to New York first?”

Arthur shook his head. “I’m not going either.”

For a second, Alfred hesitated. “So what do you wanna do?”

Another shrug. “I dunno…”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know!” Arthur raked his fingers across his hair in frustration. “I don’t know what I want but I know it’s not that! It always ends up like this.”

“ _What_ always ends up like this?” asked Alfred. “Please tell me…”

“I do nice things for other people and I get nothing return. When they get what they want, they leave,” said Arthur. “It’s nothing new.”

Alfred’s mouth hung open, but no words came out. After a moment, through trembling lips, he said, “That’s why I’m here. I’ve been with you all this time and I’ll always be here.”

Arthur grimaced. “No, this won’t work.”

“Why not?”

“This will never work. You can’t be with a sick person.”

Alfred prepared to protest, but Arthur continued, “I know you’re getting tired of me. I know you are.”

“Arthur, that’s not true. I love you.” Alfred extended an arm, debating whether to approach Arthur or not.

“You love me now, but wait until you get what you want,” said Arthur, backing away. “I get nothing in return!”

“You have me! Why do you think I stayed with you all this time?”

“How should I know if all of this isn’t just a dream? How am I guaranteed that I wouldn’t wake up all alone one morning? How should I know you’re not one of _them_?”

“Arthur, please. Stop saying that. You’re making me sad… I’m— I’m trying my best to help you. I wish you’d try harder in helping yourself…”

Hiding his face behind his hands, Arthur said nothing.

“Why don’t you want to believe me?” asked Alfred. “Why do you like contradicting everything I say? I want to be with you, Arthur. Why can’t you accept it?”

“I can’t,” said Arthur. “I just can’t…”

Alfred shut his eyes and took a deep breath. He bit his lip, looking like he wanted to curse the world. Hurt and fury twisted his face. “I know what you’re trying to do here. You like arguing with people to push them to the limit, and you don’t like it when they accept the challenge and argue back. But you always, always want to win, to finally push them away to prove that you’re right about them all along.”

A ball of flame set Arthur’s chest ablaze. He was doing Alfred a favor. Why couldn’t he see there was no point in saving him now? It was too late. They were fighting a losing battle and he didn’t want to drag Alfred down with him. He had a bright future waiting ahead of him and he should chase his dreams, in LA, or wherever they might take him. Arthur had to set him free.

Then, a moment of clarity dawned on him. There could be a way out that lay inside the drawers of his studio.

Alfred kept talking, demanding answers from him and making angry gestures, “—Where are you going? Get back here!”

“Don’t talk to me like that!” said Arthur once he opened the door to the studio. “You don’t have the right to order me around because you’re not even real.”

“Excuse me?” Alfred froze in the hallway, baffled.

As Arthur turned to him, his face was a smooth, indifferent mask, his voice calm and collected. The temperature seemed to drop ten degrees. He replied, “You’re not real. I created you.”

“Wh-What are you talking about?”

Alfred continued asking for clarification until Arthur extracted a handful of different-sized canvases from the bureau cabinet he’d never wanted him to touch. He laid all of them on the floor as if exhibiting them on the streets, presenting them to potential buyers. Each canvas showed Alfred in a wide assortment of styles. Some were realistic that could be mistaken as photos, some impressionist that still captured Alfred’s likeness astoundingly well, had colors that expressed Alfred’s warm and lively personality. Portraits and landscapes. Alfred strolling at the park, sitting on a coffee shop, playing his guitar, and many others. Most of the dates on them were before they first met in person, which was supposedly when Arthur was caught up in a bar fight and Alfred took him home.

“W-What is this?” asked Alfred, his eyes wide and brimming with tears.  “W-Why were you painting me before we even met?”

Arthur ignored the question and looked straight into Alfred’s eyes. “I can control you. I can make you do whatever I want. Do you know that?” He asked. “How do you suppose you fell in love with me? It was all my doing.”

Alfred stood in his place, pale and wordless like his mind had left his body.

“I needed you to exist, so here we are.”

Shaking his head, Alfred said, “I— I don’t believe you… I don’t believe any of this!”

He clutched his chest as if his body was on the verge of collapse, breathing heavily.

“It can’t be— it can’t be true.” His face was filled with denial. The next second, it seemed like Alfred had transformed. He was not the loving, gentle, and desperate person that he was earlier, but someone who was bursting with corrosive menace and revulsion.

“Whatever this is— this is crazy!” He interjected, throwing his arms in the air. “YOU’RE INSANE!” He jabbed at Arthur with his finger, hurt and anger radiating from his body. “YOU’RE CRUEL AND MANIPULATIVE THAT’S WHY YOU’RE SO ALONE!”

He took one last look at the paintings before wiping his eyes with his shirtsleeve. “I’M LEAVING YOU!”

Alfred stormed off without a second glance at Arthur.

Remaining where he was, Arthur felt his eyes blur with tears at the echo of Alfred’s words. Sucking a deep breath, he grabbed the nearest canvas and smashed it on the floor. A sickening scream of agony resonated in the entire apartment. Ignoring it, he hurled and hurled the canvas until there was a loud _thud_ , and through the crack of the door, he could see Alfred lying on the floor: pain, confusion, and betrayal painted on his tear-stained face. He was fighting to stand up, but it appeared that he couldn’t control himself.

Arthur used the opportunity to give the other canvases the same treatment, thrashing and tossing and kicking the paintings to the point of irreparable wreckage. Covered with sweat and breathing with difficulty, Arthur sat on the floor against the wall that Alfred helped him paint a few weeks ago. It felt like a lifetime had passed since then.

The screams, pleading, and sobbing on the hallway had stopped. As he let go of the last canvas’s remnants, Arthur finally got to his feet to inspect the damage he inflicted upon Alfred.

Arthur’s lungs shrank at that moment. Although there was no trace of bleeding, Alfred lay on the floor with his limbs positioned towards awkward angles. His eyes were closed, his face contorted as though having a nightmare. His chest rose and fell rapidly.

Fighting the renewed stinging in his eyes and his nose, Arthur returned to the studio to do something he hadn’t done in a long time. He pulled out some white papers and a pencil from a drawer and started sketching a comic strip. His skilled fingers flew across the paper swiftly, creating lines and shapes that soon became Alfred— Alfred Jones who had no memory of Arthur Kirkland, free to live his own life, leaving his apartment and taking his prized possessions with him including his guitar, embarking on a journey across the country to pursue his dreams with a light and hopeful expression on his face.  

Upon finishing, Arthur searched for all the sketches he had of Alfred, tore them into pieces, and put them in the bin. Next, he grabbed a sticky note and stuck it on the front page of the comics. He wrote this short letter, as neatly as he could with his shaking hands:

 _Alfred_ ,

_I’m sorry. I love you._

_Arthur._

He studied the note for a long moment before placing it and the comic strip on the coffee table where Alfred was sure to find it once he regained consciousness. With finality, he gazed at Alfred’s vulnerable form and put on his winter coat. He took his car and drove away, wherever the road could take him.

* * *

The sun was rising when Arthur found his way home. Weakened by another sleepless night, he dragged himself inside the apartment and searched every corner for any signs of Alfred: from the living room, the kitchen, the bathroom, the studio, the bedroom, and back to the living room where the coffee table lay untouched except for the absence of the comic strip.

Gone was he and so were all of his possessions like he never existed.

Alfred was free.

The words cut through Arthur like knives as he wiped his face with the back of his hands.

He crashed on his bed and listened to his erratic breathing. His chest exploded as if he’d destroyed himself along with the canvases. He brushed his fingertips across the bed sheets, spreading awareness across his body. _This is real, this is real…_ The early colors of dawn were shining across the room.

Burying his face on the pillows, Arthur bellowed over and over as his chest could no longer contain the pain.

He was alone. The way it should be, just what he deserved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters to go! Leave a comment if you want to continue.


End file.
